


Providence

by Nova42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Deviates From Canon, Family, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:19:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 93,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3362444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova42/pseuds/Nova42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you could do it all over again, what would you change, what would you sacrifice, who would you save? Dean wakes up in 2007 with ten years worth of memories that haven't happened yet and choices to make that will change the world forever. Spoilers through season 10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Nightmare Long

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is my first Supernatural fanfiction and the my first story after a really really long hiatus from writing and my first time ever posting on this site. Please read and review. Positive and constructive feedback feeds the starving muses and encourages them to work faster. Flames feed my army of hamsters with really sharp toothpicks bent on world domination. A very special thanks to my beta reader Pepper1622 who patiently puts up with my impressively terrible grammar.
> 
> Spoilers through to Season 10 with the assumption Dean eventually gets rid of the Mark. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything in it, I just play in it's sandbox with the toys created by Kripke and company.

_Crawl form the wreckage one more time_

_Horrific memory twists the mind_

_The path of destruction feel it burn_

_Luck. Runs. Out._

 

 _April 27_ _th_ _2017_

It was the sounds.

If he died in the next 30 seconds or lived for the next 30 years those sounds would follow him forever. Everything else he was able to shut out or dismiss. The smell and the taste, the coppery metallic taint of blood and the rotting decay of death were common in their lives. It lingered like a macabre perfume, even more so in the past year and a half. The sight—if he squeezed his eyes shut tight enough he could block out the sights. Almost pretend he was doing something somewhere else—anywhere else.

But the sounds—if he was honest, and he had no reason not to be, most of the sounds didn't bother him. The wet tearing sound of flesh could easily be mistaken for sounds one might hear in a kitchen. The clanking and rattling of metal could be a hundred different things.

But the screams— they echoed off the walls in an impressive display of acoustics that made it feel like they were surrounding him rather than coming from four feet in front of him. Screams that were filled with pain and suffering, desperation and terror, defiance and courage—the screams of his brother. Like nothing else he had ever seen, done, or heard, this would haunt him for the rest of his existence.

Those screams had pushed him past his limits; he had yelled and struggled, begged and pleaded. They were not beings of mercy, he knew that—they all knew that—but it didn't stop him from trying. He would have done anything to save his brother from that torment, but beyond forcing him to bear witness, they ignored him.

The screams had finally stopped. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. If his brother wasn't making any more noise, it was likely he was no longer alive. There was relief to be felt from that: if he wasn't alive he could no longer suffer. He could no longer feel the pain he had endured for the last few hours as they slowly and expertly pulled him apart—maximum amount of pain, minimum amount of damage. They knew what they were doing.

If his brother had been making noise, that would mean he was alive, and where there is life there is hope. At least that's what his brother kept telling him over the past two years. Yet, whatever hope he once held had been beaten, battered, and ripped from him. There was nothing left to hope for. Even with the walls closing in with no way out he knew he couldn't give up, no matter how much he wanted to. His brother wouldn't have given up, and he couldn't—wouldn't—let his brother down. He had to finish what they came here to do. And if it was to end here, he would go out fighting.

It was quiet for the moment; their captors, having gotten all the entertainment they could from the other hunter, had dispersed only minutes before. Whatever Dean was going to do, he knew he would have to move as quickly as he could. He wasn't sure how long they would be gone, but he doubted it would be long. They had a tendency to bore quickly.

He took a deep breath; his entire body was a cacophony of pain, injuries fighting each other for attention. The ones screaming their way to the top of the list were a shattered wrist, broken ribs, concussion, and dislocated shoulder. Breathing sharply through gritted teeth, he pulled his feet under him and pushed himself upright, easing some of his weight off the wrists and shoulders.

He took a moment, panting with the effort the simple movement had cost him before cracking his eyes open. He regretted the action immediately. His chest tightened and his eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries as his brother's body filled his vision. A choked sob pushed its way past his lips. This was never supposed to happen. He wasn't even supposed to be here, neither him nor Cas. They were supposed to stay behind where it was safe. But they wouldn't listen; they never listen. And now . . .

He clenched his jaw and tore his gaze away from the sight. He took a shallow breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He had to concentrate, finish what they came here to do. Forcing his gaze upwards, he focused on the chains wrapped around his wrists. If he could finish this, then maybe—just maybe—their deaths and everyone else's wouldn't be in vain.

* * *

Some time and effort, a few choked-back screams of pain, and no small amount of curses later found Dean sitting in a heap on the floor below dragging in shallow gasps. Cradling his shattered wrist to his chest, he tucked his other arm underneath him and pushed onto his knees. The world tilted and spun unsteadily around him, threatening a return of the lunch he thankfully hadn't eaten. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness, but it only seemed to make it worse. Dean dropped back onto his heels, his right hand pressed against the ground in the hopes of finding some semblance of balance. It took a few moments—far more than what he wanted to take—but the world steadied, at least enough for him to do what he had to.

As long as the other teams did their parts, the only thing left was drawing the blood seal, reciting the spell and activating it. It was supposed to be at the heart of the building, but he was sure he wasn't going to be able to stand, much less walk out of the room. Even if he could, he wasn't going to leave his brother here. Not like this. Where he was was just going to have to be close enough.

 _At least finding blood for the seal won't be an issue,_  he reflected with a grimaced as he pressed his fingers against a deep cut on his thigh. The hunter bent forward, carefully painting the symbols out on the stained and dirty concrete floor as he began to recite the spell he had spent hours memorizing the previous day.

He paused and sat back on his heels, taking a moment to catch his breath. It wasn't a short spell, but it was by no means the longest spell he'd ever had to memorize, maybe a line or two longer than the standard exorcism that they used. It was in Enochian, which at one point would have been a problem, language never really being his thing, but Cas, his two fingers of doom, and a sixteen-hour coma later, it ceased to be an issue.

As he finished the last symbol, spoke the last words, he heard them. Their movements were quiet and swift, like the hushed whispers of nightmares too horrible to speak of. There was little time for any reaction beyond a choked gasp as they seized him by the throat, snapping him up off the floor.

Dean grasped at the appendage coiled around his throat, trying to dislodge it. He knew it wouldn't do him any good, but there was no way he was just going to sit back. If they wanted to kill him they would have to work for it. He kicked out at his captor; the thing easily caught him by the shin. It gave Dean its own hellish version of a grin as it slowly increased pressure on his leg. The bone popped and creaked like the breaking of ice. It would have almost been a peaceful sound if it wasn't for the shearing pain that drove itself through his leg into his chest before exploding out in a strangled scream.

He attempted to catch his breath, forcing what little air his could past the pressure building against his throat. Spots teased his vision, growing in size when he was abruptly released and found himself nose-down on the ground once more. There were whispers, words, and shouts all dancing at the edge of his hearing, just barely out of reach.

Dean sought out the barely recognizable form of his brother. He could still finish this. He clenched his jaw, gathering everything he had left, reaching out toward the sigil in front of him. The room lit up with a bright light that was warm and comforting yet cold and soothing as his blood-soaked hand struck the center.

Then everything just . . . stopped.

* * *

 _April 27_ _th_ _2007_

Dean folded an arm across his chest while brushing a thumb back and forth across his lower lip. Deep lines creased his forehead as he stared downwards in concentration.

"Don't hurt yourself, man."

Dean glared through his eyelashes at his brother while attempting to decipher what answer he could give the younger man that would be satisfactory enough to let him off the hook.

Sam released a huff of air. "Dean . . ." There was a hint of warning in his tone; his head tilted to the side and his eyebrows raised in a show of impatient expectation.

"Yeah, all right, don't get your panties in a twist." Dean patted the air between them. At this point continuing to stall would only weaken his position, and Sam would not wait much longer for an answer.

His eyes fell back down to the space between them, debating for a moment longer. "All right." Squaring his shoulders, he prepared to give his answer. "Ketchup."

"Ketchup?" Sam asked with an air of disbelief. "Dean, the stain is green." Sam gestured to the large spot between them on the brown may-have-once-been-white carpet.

Dean shrugged, a crooked smile settling on his face. "They have green ketchup," he responded defensively, raising his hands animatedly between them. "Hear me out." He took a deep breath as he started to roll his story out. It was a completely ridiculous, off-the-wall, could-never-happen-in-a-million-years type story. But then, that was the whole point. He spun his tale to the best of his ability, and then stood watching his brother's face, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sam folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head. "That's the best you got?"

"What? Come on, man, that was gold."

"Better than an angry melting ghost?"

"I—shut up." All right, leading with ketchup probably didn't give him the strongest start. Dean gave the stain one last look, rubbing the back of his neck. He rolled his eyes, sighing as he reluctantly admitted, "Yeah, okay. That is better." He leaned down, picking up a bag heavy with dirty laundry.

Sam smiled triumphantly. "Hey, try not to dye everything pink this time."

"Stop putting your girly pink panties in the bag with the whites and I won't."

Sam paused from pulling his laptop from his bag to give Dean his best bitch-face. "Dude, for the last time: Those. Were not. Mine."

"Mhm, whatever you say, Samantha."

Sam threw Dean an obscene gesture, followed closely with a "Jerk," as he settled himself down at the battered motel table with his laptop.

"Bitch."

With a chuckle Dean reached for the door handle, only to stop short as an odd sensation passed over him, sending a chill down his spine. His smirk slipped away as he cast a glance over his shoulder at the motel room, trying to identify the source. It didn't feel wrong so much as just . . . not right.

"Dean?" Sam's voice called from across the short distance.

Glancing over to him, Dean could see Sam's eyebrows raised in a question. "I'm not . . ." His eyes glided across the room for an answer. He'd been a hunter long enough to know not to ignore that feeling, but nothing in the room seemed out of place. Everything appeared the same, like every other crappy motel room they had ever stayed at. The old scent of cigarettes lingered in the air, questionable stains decorated various surfaces, yellowing paint flaked off walls so thin they knew the couple in the next room over were having an affair.  _Well, they were till the wife showed up._

A second shiver pulled him out of his musings as an uncomfortably warm feeling brushed over him, settling at the center of his chest. Dean placed his free hand flat against his sternum, looking down as if the answer would be written there.

"Dean?" A chair shifted backwards, thumping against the wall. Quick footsteps crossed the floor, stopping just in front of him.

Dean's eyes shifted up, locking onto Sam's. Any answer Dean had planned on was lost as the sensation shifted before exploding into a searing pain. It raced through his system like molten fire, filling his entire being and stealing his breath. His legs disappeared from under him; the forgotten laundry bag slipped from his numb fingers as he felt himself pitch forward.

"Dean!" Sam reached out, catching him before he could hit the floor. "Dean? Hey, man, talk to me."

He couldn't breathe. The fire was pressing in on him, burning away any air he managed to suck in. Distantly he could feel his brother's touch against the back of his neck, hear his voice, but it washed over him, lost in the roaring sound that had filled his ears. The fire increased, pulling him under—Dean was almost grateful for the dark oblivion as it rushed up to greet him.

Almost.


	2. Through The Never

  _Obligation to survive_

_We hunger to be alive_

_On a quest, meaning, reason_

_Came to be, how it begun_

_All alone in the family of the sun_

 

Dean reclined contentedly on the hood of his Impala, gazing out at the expanse beyond the cliff he was perched on, one arm resting on his bent knee as he sipped on a cool beer. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, watching the sun slowly sinking toward the desert cliffs and the river below, painting everything in a warm gold-and-red hue.

It was a breathtaking sight that Dean had never seen before —at least not one he had seen in person. From where he sat, he could see the history of the world woven into the walls of the canyon. He absently wondered what those walls might say a thousand years from now. What story would they tell about the time he lived once it was long past? Would they speak of the sacrifices that were made to keep everyone safe, despite the world’s apparent desire to just drive the bus off the cliff? Or would everything and everyone be buried under the dirt to be all but forgotten? Would there even be a world left to forget?

The hunter breathed in deeply, taking a moment to enjoy his surroundings for what they were: a temporary sanctuary, a calm before the inevitable storm. There were, of course, other places he would consider more peaceful, but he couldn’t deny having wanted to come here for a long time with his brother. He wasn’t sure why they never did. _Sam would have loved it_. Dean smiled fondly around the mouth of his bottle. He could see his baby brother now, geeking out over, well, everything. He would of course call Sam an encyclopedia of weirdness, making fun of his brother’s vast wealth of random facts. Sam would then retaliate with his own jab, maybe about his love for cars or girls or food.

Dean’s breath hitched in his chest as he thought of the events preceding him waking up in this place. He lowered his bottle, letting it rest in his relaxed hands. They should have gone to the Grand Canyon. Dean squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to banish the last images of his brother from his mind and replace them with something else, like why he even was where he was. Taking another calming breath, Dean opened his eyes, absorbing the view, letting it wash over him. He knew this place wasn’t Hell. Aside from the lack of torture and eternal torment, the gates were sealed, and Hell was closed for business—no demons out and no souls in. He knew it wasn’t Heaven for much the same reason, except Heaven’s gates had been closed years ago; it was the portal that was recently sealed. They never did figure that one out.

The crunching sound of footsteps in loose dirt pulled Dean from his thoughts; he knew immediately who it was and steeled his expression appropriately. “If you’re here to tell me that everything the light touches will soon be mine . . .” He shook his head, bringing his beer once more to his mouth. “I gotta tell you, man, you can keep it.”

Castiel didn’t look at Dean, instead eyeing the slowly setting sun, but a small smile rested on his lips. Dean watched him for a moment before returning his own gaze out toward the canyon.

"So this isn't the veil." Dean gestured widely in front of him.

"No, this is . . . someplace else."

"Well that's specific."

"Dean." Cas turned his full attention to the hunter. "We don't have much time."

Dean tilted his head to the side, letting out a humorless chuckle. "Sounds about right." He rested his beer on his lap. "Cas, what's going on?"

"I'm sorry I couldn't get to you sooner. By the time I reached you and your brother . . ." He looked away, allowing the unspoken words to sit between them before continuing. "When I saw what happened—what was happening—I tried . . . I did the only thing I could think of."

"Cas, what did you do?" Dean prompted, unsure if he really wanted to hear the answer.

"I attempted to send you back."

"Back? Like back to the bunker?" Dean shot a glance out over the canyon. "I think you missed."

"Back in time." Cas shifted his stare back to his friend.

"Back in time? Haven't done that in a while, but I thought you couldn't actually change . . ." Dean let the sentence trail off. Time travel had never been one of his favorite subjects. Trying to figure it out was like a dog chasing its tail. There was no end in sight, and you just ended up dizzy.

"It is possible, though very difficult, and there is always a chance of things turning out far worse."

"Worse than sadistic, soul-eating creatures bent on turning the world into their own all-you-can-eat buffet?"

"Yes."

Dean nodded appreciatively. "Awesome . . . wait." He paused as the angel's exact words caught up to him. "What do you mean you _attempted_ to send me back?"

Castiel hesitated for a moment, searching for the correct words. "By the time I reached you most of my grace had been depleted from fighting. I believed there was enough to send you back whole, but that was not the case."

"All right." Dean started slowly, "If we're not in the past, and we're not in the veil or dying in a dirty warehouse, then where are we?"

"Simply put, we are on a type of metaphysical plain created in part by the grace I expanded and the cognitive—”

"Whoa, whoa, Cas." Dean held his hands between Castiel and himself. "Terms I can understand." He turned his palms upwards, careful not to spill his drink. "Like I'm five."

Castiel looked away, tilting his head to the side as he once more searched for the proper words. After what felt like hours, Cas spoke again. "It's a place in between life and death. My grace gave it life, but your mind gave it shape."

"Like Limbo?"

Castiel thought for a moment, then nodded. "That would be a fairly accurate description, yes."

"All right. So you tried to send me back in time and we ended up in Limbo. I'm assuming you have some kind of plan?" Dean asked hopefully. He wasn't all too keen on spending eternity in Limbo or on some plain of existence in his head or whatever was going on. Maybe he should've stuck with trying to figure out time travel.

"Well, technically _we_ aren't here. You are."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Come again?"

"When I used my grace to send you back, I used all of it. And without my grace . . ." Castiel let the sentence trail off. He gestured to himself as he faced Dean. "What you see is more like an . . . afterimage created by my grace, so I could talk to you. That is why we don't have much time. I don't know how long this place or I will last."

"All right then, Obi-Wan." Dean gestured to Cas to continue as he took a drink of his beer, only to find it disappointingly empty. He glanced around, looking for a cooler or more bottles, then gave a much put-upon sigh when his search came up empty.

"I wasn't able to send you back whole, but the spell can still be finished with a slight . . . modification." Castiel pushed on before the hunter could interrupt him. "I can't send you back like the other times. But I believe I can send your soul, memories, and consciousness back to your past body."

Dean tilted his head, narrowing his eyes a fraction. "Is this going to be like the Enochian thing?"

"It will not."

"Good."

"You have a much better chance of exploding rather than ending up a vegetable," Cas supplied in a calm voice, as if they were just talking about the weather.

"Awesome." Dean looked around the area again, having a sudden urge for a glass or bottle of whiskey. "Okay, so let's say we do this. What happens to . . . all that stuff with my past self?"

Castiel shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Cas?" Dean said, slowly drawing out the angel's name in a question.

"Theoretically, your soul and your past self’s soul would merge together into one single soul, as would your consciousness and memories."

Dean sat up straighter, gesturing to Castiel as he spoke. "Theoretically? As in you don't know?"

"It's never been done before, and the human body isn't meant to hold two whole souls. There is no telling what may happen when your soul comes in contact with your past soul."

Dean sighed heavily. He wasn't particularly keen on exploding—not even really sure how that worked—but he knew the chance to change events was too great to pass up. If they could stop those soul-suckers from gaining a foothold, then they could end up saving millions of people. Really, there was no decision. On the plus side, if he did explode, that would certainly change history. Dean slid off the hood of his car, coming to stand in front of his friend. He held his hands out to his sides. "Okay then."

"I'm not sure how far I will be able to send you back—maybe a few years or so. But it should be enough to make a difference." Castiel reached up to place two fingers on Dean's forehead. Just before he made contact, he paused. "Good luck, Dean. You'll need it."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," he said, echoing the words he had spoken to another long ago."Let's dance."

Dean felt Castiel touch his forehead. At first it seemed like nothing was going to happen, like the spell was a dud, or maybe there just wasn’t enough juice to finish the spell. He was about to tell Cas when he felt a fire starting at the angel's fingers, racing down through his limbs, rocking through him in tumultuous waves. The fire crashed and bounced within him, centering in the middle of his chest like the eye of a terrible hurricane. What felt like an eternity in time lasted only seconds before everything went black.

 

* * *

  

He decided waking up was much like trying to swim through molasses in the middle of winter, not that he ever tried swimming through molasses in the winter, or anytime of the year for that matter. It would probably be pretty awkward, and sticky. Moreover, he wasn't entirely sure where one would even get a tub of molasses big enough to properly swim in. Dean gave himself a mental shake; there was something he was supposed to do. It was important. At least he was pretty sure it was important. Like ninety-five percent sure . . . maybe ninety . . . or eighty-five . . . percent . . . sure. Eighty-six. He was eighty-six percent sure of . . . something.

Dean attempted to push his way through the cotton that someone had stuffed his head with. He struggled to remember _why_ everything felt so . . . cottony. _Was that even a word?_ His thoughts and memories were murky and disjointed at best, floating nonsensically. Every time he tried to grasp onto a thought, it drifted just beyond reach. He remembered a crappy motel room, and Cas, and the Grand Canyon. But that didn't seem right. The Grand Canyon wasn't in a crappy motel room —or was the crappy motel room in the Grand Canyon? That didn't seem correct either. He was pretty sure he had never been to the Grand Canyon. It was a place he always wanted to go, but there had never seemed to be enough time. Or was it never the right time?

Bracing himself against the broken jigsaw puzzle that was his mind, Dean tried to center on a single memory; if he could just grasp onto one, maybe he could build from there. Cas seemed to be the clearest memory—the angel had told him something. It was important: he was sending him somewhere, somewhere so he could fix things. Make things better. Save someone. As he focused on that single thought, his memory cleared at a painful crawl.

 _Sam_. He was going to save his brother. And the world by proxy. He was sure whatever plan he came up with though was going to have to start with waking up.

 

* * *

  

The chair Sam sat in redefined uncomfortable: the back had a weird curve to it, and all the padding in the seat seemed to have been worn flat long before he was born. The fact that he had been sitting in it for almost two days now didn't help. Sam leaned forward, digging his palms into his eyes with a groan of frustration. It had been forty-two hours since his brother collapsed in their motel room. Forty-one since he got the name of a doctor of sorts they could trust from Ellen. Thirty-seven since they arrived in the middle of the night. Twenty-two since his brother stopped breathing for the third time. And fifteen since the doctor sighed, patted him on the shoulder, and told him he didn't know what was wrong with Dean. For now all they could do was treat the symptoms and hope he woke up on his own.

Sam studied his brother’s still form. Everything about it was so wrong. His brother was practically motion personified. Dean never stopped moving—there was always something to do, somewhere to go, someone to save. The last time Sam saw Dean that still was right after the accident almost a year ago. A shudder ran through him; he had hoped to never see his brother in that position ever again. _At least this time he’s breathing on his own—mostly._ There was no respirator forcing air into his lungs like before, but there was a nasal cannula to supply oxygen, along with a blood pressure cuff, EKG, and a pulse oximeter.

For the last forty some hours Dean's stats had jumped all over the place. They would be within normal ranges for a few minutes to an hour, only to drop dangerously low or spike dangerously high before leveling out once more. The doctor, Daniel Haynes, had told him that he didn't often use the more modern machines with his patients, preferring instead the homeopathic or witchcraft side of medicine. Sam snorted mirthlessly. _Witchcraft. Dean's gonna love that._ However, when nothing seemed to work, the good doctor felt it was prudent to have something that could closely monitor what was going on so they could better counter it.

Standing up, Sam stretched, trying to work out some of the kinks and soreness in his muscles; pacing the room, he soon found himself looking out a small window on the far side. Technically, there was nothing _medically_ wrong with Dean. They thought it might be something supernatural—they still did. Unfortunately, the only supernatural encounters they had recently was the Djinn earlier this month, the whole peanut butter disaster they swore never to speak of again a few weeks after that, and of course the each-uisge just a few days ago.

None of those instances really explained Dean's current state. Sure, the Djinn could make people catatonic—put them in a dream state—but that Djinn was dead and Dean wasn't catatonic. Sam heaved a heavy sigh; he felt so lost and wished for his brother to wake up and make everything better just by virtue of being. He knew it was a childish thought, but he couldn't help it. It was as much an ingrained response as his brother's need to protect was. Sam glanced back over his shoulder; he felt his heart skip at the sight that greeted him.

Dean's eyes were open. They were glassy, unfocused, and moving everywhere at once as if watching something only he could see, but they were open.

Covering the distance between them in a few quick strides, Sam sent a fleeting glance to the door of the tiny room, wondering for a moment if he should fetch the doctor. He dismissed the idea for the moment, not wanting to leave his brother just yet.

He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and moved into his line of sight. “Dean? Hey.” Sam kept his words low and soft but forceful enough to pull Dean's attention. He watched him blink hard a few times; he could tell he was still struggling through the fog of waking up.

"S'm?" His voice sounded like broken glass. Dean reached up, his fingers tangling themselves loosely into Sam's sleeve. "You're not . . . " He took a shallow breath. "You're . . . okay?"

It was a normal Dean-type question to ask, but the intensity he asked it with set a cold pit in Sam's stomach. Dean looked at him with an almost desperate, hopeful, and, if Sam didn't know any better, he would say _scared_ countenance. Dean didn't do scared. At least not where anyone could see.

"Yeah, man, _I'm_ fine." Sam smiled weakly. "I mean besides the heart attack you tried to give me," he added in an attempt for levity, but it fell short. "Dean?" he prodded when his brother continued to watch him like he was worried Sam would disappear between one moment and the next. He could feel Dean grip his arm convulsively. "Hey, Dean. You with me, man?"

Dean's eyes snapped into focus. "Sam?" he said like the whisper of a prayer.

"Yeah, man." He squeezed Dean's shoulder firmly. "I’m right here."

Dean watched him for a moment longer before nodding mutely. Sam wasn't sure which one of them the nod was for. Dean's eyes slid off him to take in their environment, though his hand remained tangled in Sam's sleeve. The younger hunter watched carefully as Dean took in the room before letting his own gaze follow Dean's. He realized for having spent two days there he hadn't really paid their surroundings much attention. Not that he didn't notice the warm brown walls, plain if not for the various drying herbs that seemed to be arbitrarily draped around the room, or the chaotically filled shelves in the corner. His focus had just been set on the man that had been lying inert at the center of it all.

Sam's attention was pulled back as the grip on his sleeve fell away, and he felt his brother shift under his hand as he pulled off the nasal cannula and struggled to sit up. Sam shifted his hand to his chest. "Dean, maybe you should take it easy. You were—"

Dean made a clumsy swipe at Sam's hand. "Ge' off," he muttered half-heartedly, continuing to push against him.

Sam sighed; trying to get his brother to sit still when he had other plans was like . . . well, he really had nothing to compare it to, as nothing was quite as hard. He tucked his hand beneath Dean's shoulder and helped him sit up, adjusting the head of the bed into a reclined position.

Pain spiked through Dean's head as he shifted elevation; he scrunched his eyes against the scenes flashing across his vision. It was like watching the last few years of his life playing out in no particular order at high speed. It made him feel like he was going to lose the lunch he remembered eating both forever ago and what seemed like only a few hours ago. It was beyond disorienting. Dean pressed the back of his hand to his mouth with a groan. "Almost wish I'd exploded," he muttered.

"Dean?" his brother questioned softly. "Maybe I should go get the doctor now."

He felt Sam give his shoulder a squeeze before he started to let go. "No!" Dean jumped slightly, reaching out to grab Sam's arm. He cleared his throat, trying to cover up the action. "No need to bother the doctor yet." He didn't want his little brother to leave, not just yet. The last images he had seen of him were still too fresh in his mind and kept superimposing themselves across this current version of his brother. He held onto Sam for a few more seconds before letting go to rub his forehead. "’m fine," he mumbled wearily.

Sam snorted mirthlessly. "Dude, do you even know what fine means?"

As he was opening his mouth to retort, Dean stopped short as another image flashed across his vision, this one different. Where the others had been memories, this one wasn't, not really. It was more like a picture of what appeared to be a seal or a sigil. Dean pushed against the bed, shoving a flash of pain and dizziness to the side, looking around for something to write on. He had the overwhelming feeling that it was important and he didn't want to lose the image.

"Dean? Hey." Sam snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Dude, talk to me. What's wrong?" Apparently he had been trying to get Dean’s attention for the last several minutes.

The hunter glanced up at his brother for a moment. "I, uh . . . I need some paper, and a—" He moved his hand in a universal sign of writing.

Dean leaned forward over his knees, pressing his palm tightly against his forehead; the memory replay was finally tapering off, leaving in its stead a headache that Dean was convinced was going to cause physical cracks through his skull. He started slightly when a notebook and pencil appeared in front of his face. He took the items, flipping to an empty page, and began drawing the image that was relentlessly bouncing in his head in between the memories bouncing along with it. It was a five-pointed star inside a six-pointed star, inside an eleven-pointed star inside a large circle. There was writing throughout—he recognized as Enochian—but the image wasn't clear enough to make out the actual words.

"What is that?" Sam asked, leaning in a bit to examine the drawing from a better angle.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea." That wasn't completely true. It was true in that he didn't know what the symbol was for, nor why it was in his head. But he was fairly sure that the image was Cas' doing. For one reason or another, the nerd angel had planted it there; he just had to figure out why.

"You don't know?" Sam reached out for the notebook. "It kind of looks like a devil's trap, but . . . different. More elaborate."

Dean gave up the notebook with a small shrug, watching as Sam tore the paper out. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with a devil's trap, though he couldn't really deny the similarity between the two. However, there was no reason for Castiel to plant the image of one in his head. He would have to figure it out later when he had time and access to some old books. But first he had to figure out what time he was in, and then he could move on from there. He knew he was back further than just a few years,; he could tell from Sam alone. The kid still had that air of innocence, less than when he first pulled him out of Stanford, but it was there nonetheless.

Figuring the best approach would be the direct approach, Dean cleared his throat before turning his attention back to his brother and asking as nonchalantly as possible, "Hey, Sam. What's the date?"

Sam lifted his gaze up from the drawing; he raised his eyebrows as he took a moment to think. "The twenty-ninth, I think."

"Twenty-ninth of . . . ?"

"April," Sam responded, a bit slower.

Dean nodded his head once, wincing at the pain the movement cost him. "Twenty-ninth of April, two thousand . . ." He let the sentence trail off, hoping Sam would finish it.

Sam watched Dean for a long moment, then shoved the piece of paper in his pocket. "Okay, I'm getting the doctor."

"No, wait, Sam." Dean reached out to grab him, but his brother was already out the door. "Damn it." He let his hand fall back to his lap. That worked out well. On the flip side, the sooner the doc came and decided there was nothing wrong, the sooner they could get out of there and work on more important things.

Dean sighed and started to fiddle with the pulse ox still on his finger. He reached over to the machine it was connected to and started messing with the knobs. He knew better than to remove the device before shutting it off. Some of them had a tendency of making a lovely ear-shattering wail when you did. Dean chewed on his lower lip as he inspected the machine; it looked like someone had pulled it right out of the forties.

The unexpected sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted Dean's current mission, startling him into swinging back around toward the door. He squeezed his eyes shut and cradled his head as the movement caused the world to tilt viciously on its axis.

"I see what you mean."

Dean blinked his vision clear and looked up to find the owner of the voice standing next to his brother, who was wearing a rather impressive bitch face at his attempt to shut off the medical equipment. Dean gave a small apologetic shrug ,even though they both knew he wasn't sorry in the least. He turned his attention back to the currently unknown person: the man was tall, maybe only an inch or so shorter than Sam. He kind of looked like Marko Ramius from _Hunt for Red October_ , but instead of being dressed like a Lithuanian submarine commander he was dressed rather casually in jeans and a button-up shirt. Not exactly what he expected from a doctor.

"It's good to finally see you awake." The Marko Ramius look alike approached the bed and held a hand out to Dean. "Daniel Haynes."

Dean smiled tightly at the man, returning his handshake while hiding his disappointment that the man didn't share Marko Ramius' accent, but instead had a slightly less exciting normal southern drawl.

"Your brother told me you are having trouble recalling the date?" Haynes asked while he moved around the bed, checking on the equipment Dean had just been toying with.

"Twenty-ninth of April," Dean replied. He wanted to get out of that place as soon as possible and go somewhere he could think and plan what he needed to do.

"Dean, I just told you that not even five minutes ago." Sam folded his arms over his chest.

The doctor looked between the two brothers for a moment; he then turned his attention back to his patient. "Do you know what year?"

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth; he looked over at Sam, trying to gauge the man's age and thus the year. "Two thousand . . ." he trailed off thoughtfully, taking a moment to try and search his memories. Unfortunately, they were still a big garbled mess overlapping each other; he couldn't figure out which were recent from this time and which just stood out enough to feel recent. ". . . nine?" he finally finished slowly.

Doctor Haynes pursed his lips together tightly enough that Dean was pretty sure he hadn't hit the mark and may have even been more than a few off. On the plus side, he narrowed the date down to not two thousand and nine.

"Have you been experiencing any other memory problems since you woke up?"

Dean had to bite back a laugh, because it was funny. It really was. He opted instead to just shake his head, wearing the best innocent face he could muster. He glanced over at Sam, who had taken a seat next to the bed, watching him intently. He fidgeted, abruptly knowing how the animals at the zoo felt.

Haynes studied him for a moment as if he knew something Dean didn't. "Do you remember where you were when you . . . collapsed?"

He did know that one. "New York. No, wait."New York had been the warehouse he was in until Cas  _Days of Future's Past_ -ed his ass. "Ohio," he answered confidently. He figured he had about a one-in-forty-seven chance of getting it right.

"Dean," Sam started slowly.

_Damn it._

"We were in Florida. Remember we were hunting the each-uisge? You almost drowned."

"Right, the thing with the . . . thing . . ." Dean trailed off.  He spared the doctor a glance as he realized that Sam was talking about hunting in front of someone they didn't know, or at least he didn't know. He shot Sam a look, figuring the kid would immediately know what he was asking.

Sam glanced between his brother and Daniel. "He . . . knows about hunting and the supernatural." He fidgeted in his chair. "After you, uh . . . I called Ellen and she recommended him. I should probably call her soon and let her know you're, well, you're awake."

"Ellen?" Dean shifted on the bed, giving Sam his full attention. "As in Ellen Harvelle?"

"Yeah . . ." Sam's eyes flicked worriedly from Dean to the doctor and back again. "Dean . . ."

He didn't hear the rest of what Sam was saying—the impact of what it meant if Ellen was still alive hit him like a ton of bricks. If she was alive, that meant Bobby was alive. It also meant that Sam hadn't jumped into the cage with Lucifer yet. That also meant that Cas had sent him back more than a few years, but closer to—he did some quick math in his head—maybe around eight years. But eight years ago would have been two thousand nine, and he already established that it wasn't two thousand and nine. At the latest it was two thousand and eight, which meant . . .   _Holy shit. Lucifer hasn't busted out of his cage yet._ If he couldn't stop that from happening, that would cause a huge ripple effect. He might actually be able to stop two thousand seventeen from every happening and save his brother a lot of pain and guilt.

"Dean!"

He jumped, surprised to find Sam standing directly in front of him with both hands on either side of his face. _When the hell did that happen?_ He saw both the doctor and his brother looking at him with varying degrees of concern. _Nice one, spacing out is really going to convince them that you're fine._ Dean attempted to lean back from Sam, not that there was much room for him to go. "Dude, if you're going to kiss me, you're gonna have to at least buy me dinner first."

Sam let his head drop to his chest with a growl as he stepped back, but before he could say anything, the doctor spoke up, addressing Sam: "How long has he been awake?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Dean for a moment before turning back to the doctor. "Maybe twenty or so minutes, I think."

"Has he spaced out at all during that time, or any time before he lost consciousness?"

"No. Well, he sort of spaced out right before he passed out, like he was seeing something only he could see."

"Interesting." Haynes ran his thumb back and forth across his chin. "And there was nothing else out of the ordinary?"

Sam started shaking his head, then stopped, remembering something. "Oh, there's this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the drawing Dean had done earlier, handing it to the doctor.

Haynes took the paper and studied the crude drawing for a long moment. "What is it?"

"We don't know," Sam said with a shrug.

Haynes glanced up in surprise, his gaze bouncing to Dean for a split moment before returning to Sam. "You've never seen it before?"

Dean watched the two go back and forth like a volleyball game; it was starting to make his already splitting head hurt worse, if such a thing was even possible. Dean cleared his throat in an effort to grab their attention. This twenty questions thing was going to get really old really fast, and his inability to properly answer their questions was just going to get them worrying in the wrong direction. Personally, he would have preferred them to not worry at all, as he was fine—comparatively. "You know, as much fun as this is, I really am fine. I mean my recent memory is a little muddy, but everything else is in working order. I promise."

"Dean, you're not fine. Something's wrong with you," Sam insisted.

"I've been told that."

"No, man, you collapsed in the motel room and we still don't know why. You were in a coma, an actual coma for almost two days, during which time you stopped breathing three times." He held up three fingers, emphasizing his point. "Your heart stopped. _Stopped,_ Dean." Sam ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated breath. "God, Dean, I thought you were going to die." He let his hands drop back down to his sides. "After Dad . . . I can't lose you too, man."

Dean pulled his lips against his teeth, feeling exceptionally guilty. Sam had no idea what was going on. If the roles had been reversed, he would have been going out of his mind with worry for his little brother. He tapped the air between them. "All right, all right. What do you want me to do? We don't know what caused all this—" He felt ten times worse lying. But it was just for now. "—and at the moment there is nothing we can do about it."

"I know, just—just stop trying to brush it off like it's no big deal," Sam said in a small voice that immediately reminded Dean of when he was just a kid looking for safety in his older brother.

 _Yup,_ Dean thought to himself, _feeling like pure ass now._

The sound of a throat being cleared broke what was quickly becoming an awkward chick-flick moment. Both Sam and Dean turned to the doctor.

"As much as I hate to admit it, your brother is right." He gestured to Dean. "My best guess is that whatever this is is supernatural in nature. Unfortunately, we can't really do anything at the moment except maybe research the symptoms to see if they match anything another hunter has come across before." Haynes handed the piece of paper back to Sam. "I've never seen a seal or sigil that resembles this one. But if you poke around I'm sure you might find something in an older book."

Sam took the piece of paper back, tucking it into his pocket once more. "Thank you for your help. Really." He reached out to shake the man's hand.

The doctor accepted his gesture. "I'm going to send you off with some painkillers for that headache and something for the dizziness." He turned to Sam. "Keep a careful eye on him. If he passes out again don't hesitate to call. That goes for anything else that might come up. And I'll do some poking around; I’ll let you know if I find anything."

Sam frowned, glancing at his older brother. "Do you think there’s a chance he might . . . I mean  . . . fall into another . . . ?"

Haynes shrugged. "Sorry, son, I honestly can't say."

Dean waited a breath before he clapped his hands together. "Does this mean I'm free?" He gave a hopeful look, already half off the bed.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable."

Dean gave him his most charming smile. "Very true."

 

* * *

  

Dean relaxed into the impala's seat, letting the familiar roar of the engine wash over him and sooth away any lingering stress. It didn't matter where he was or what time he was in—he would always find comfort in his baby. He would much rather be driving, but after nearly eating dirt twice while walking from the not-quite-a-clinic to the car, only saved by his brother's quick reaction and insistent hovering, he begrudgingly gave into Sam. Though to be fair, even if he hadn't almost face-planted, there was no way he could have driven. Both Doctor Feel-Good and Sam had been adamant that he take a little something for his head before he would be allowed to leave. It only took a few minutes for him to realize that that “little something” had turned out to be a rather potent something. Downside, walking in a straight line was now off the table. Upside, he couldn't feel . . . _anything_.

Thankfully, it wasn't anything that made him really loopy or chatty; he could still think reasonably clear. He still had his wits about him, enough to tell without opening his eyes that his brother was glancing over at him every five seconds.

"Dude," he started. "Stop staring at me like that. You're not my type."

He could practically feel his brother rolling his eyes at him. Dean waited a moment before counting down in his head, _Five, four, three, two . . ._

"You sure you're okay?"

 _So close._ Dean smirked to himself. "I told you, Sammy, I'm fine."

"Dean . . ."

"Seriously, Sam, whatever those little magic pills are the doc gave me, they _are_ working." He turned his head to look at his brother. Sam still looked worried, but nodded his acceptance of Dean's words.

"Okay, I think there's a motel maybe another forty minutes ahead. Why don't we stop there for the night? Get some rest, then we can head off to Bobby's in the morning."

"Bobby's? What for?" Not that he didn't want to see the man—just the opposite. It had been around five years his time since Bobby died; the thought of seeing him alive and well again made Dean practically giddy with excitement. A little anxious as well, if he was honest.

Sam spared a quick glance at him. "That thing you drew—if anyone will know what it is, it's Bobby."

"Good point." Dean cast a glance out the window; the sun had disappeared behind the horizon not too long ago, leaving the entire world beyond the car blanketed in darkness. "Hey, you said we were in Florida before I . . ." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "But this isn't Florida."

"We were outside . . ." Sam paused, trying to recall the name of the town, "Uh, Osyka, Mississippi. Now, though, we are about two hours north of it."

"Ah, Mississippi, home of the . . . Mississippians."

Sam turned slightly, giving Dean an odd glance. "What?"

Maybe a little loopy. He waved his hand. "Shut up." Dean tucked down into the seat, folding his arms over his stomach and leaning against the door. He couldn't remember the last time he slept that wasn't in a coma. He suddenly felt very tired and was looking forward to a real bed. Even if it wasn't his Memory Foam mattress back at the bunker. 

They drove the rest of the way to the motel in relative silence, the sounds of Metallica turned low filling the space between them. It felt like only a few seconds later when Dean was nudged by a hand on his shoulder. "Go 'way," he muttered, trying to curl further into the door, but the hand was insistent.

"Dean, we're here," Sam told him. "I'm going to go get us a room. You think you can get the bags?"

Dean dragged his fingers across his eyes, trying to remove some of the sleep. "Yeah, sure." He blinked at the door handle a few times before reaching for it and popping it open. The cool night air rushed in, helping him wake up a little more as he unfolded himself from the car and stumbled toward the trunk. He glanced up, watching his brother cross the parking lot and enter the building.

Once Sam disappeared, Dean focused on the trunk before him. He opened it up, moving a few items around and grabbing what he felt they would need for the night. It wasn't really that much: change of clothes, few guns, salt, shower stuff. Dean plucked at his shirt, taking a small whiff. _Definitely shower stuff_.

Satisfied that he had everything they needed, Dean placed the bags on top of the false bottom and sat against the open trunk. He glanced back over toward the motel's office; Sam sure was taking his time. Maybe he found some little old lady to mother him, or worse, hit on him. Dean shivered at the thought, though a smile settled on his face. He dragged a hand down his face as he let out a heavy sigh. He wondered if Sam's penchant to attract cougars had become a thing yet. A part of him hoped so, if for no other reason than to give him ammunition against his brother. Dean chuckled. Sam did have a habit of collecting older ladies' numbers.

The smile dropped from Dean's face as a thought hit him; he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it earlier. He moved around the side of the car, slipping into the passenger seat, and dug through the glove box. He pulled out one of the many phones they kept. No matter how old the phones were, one thing remained the same: they always had the date, including the year. Dean flipped open the phone; the screen read April twenty-ninth, two thousand and seven. Dean nodded to himself. Two thousand and seven—he hadn't been that far off. 

Now he just had to remember what happened around that date, what already happened, and what would soon happen. Something tickled at the back of his mind: the twenty-ninth was a few days before his brother’s birthday. May second, two thousand and seven. The memory hit Dean with all the force of a speeding truck. May second two thousand and seven—that was exactly a year before he went to Hell. It was the day he sold his soul to bring his brother back after he was killed. That meant . . .

Dean's gaze shot up toward the motel's office; he wasn't sure how long Sam had been gone, but the icy feeling that suddenly took place in his stomach told him it was _too_ long. Dean dropped the phone, making a mad dash toward the office, stumbling as the drugs still lingering in his system sent him off kilter. He wrenched the doors open and barreled in; the unmistakable smell of sulfur assaulted him immediately.

"Sam!" Dean yelled as he moved around the small space, but with the exception of a few stiff-backed chairs and a small desk in front of a closed door, the room was empty, devoid of any life.

He couldn't be too late—there was no way he had been sent back just to screw up already.

His gaze swept across the room, spotting the door on the other side. He closed the distance in a fraction of an instant and shoved it open. Outside was nothing but a poorly paved parking lot.

The cold pit in his stomach intensified tenfold.

"Sam!"

 


	3. Carpe Diem Baby

_Stoke fire, break neck_

_Suffer through this, cheat on death_

_So take this world and shake it_

_Come carpe diem, baby_

 

Dean pressed his foot deeper into the gas pedal. This time he knew where Sam was; there would be no wasting time following clues or waiting for some sign. His brother was in Cold Oak, South Dakota. Unfortunately, knowing didn't make his car go any faster, and he was still a nineteen-hour drive from South Dakota's border.

Dean dug his palm into his left eye; the adrenaline coursing through his system had done wonders for burning out any lingering weariness or medication. It did not, however, do much for the stabbing pain behind his eye. He let his hand drop back to the steering wheel, trying to push the headache aside.

If he pressed the car and drove straight through, he was sure he could make it to Cold Oak in just over fifteen hours. While that was later than he would like, it should drop him there sometime close to dusk. If he remembered correctly, that would still be sooner than the last time they did this dance.

Dean had briefly considered calling Bobby for backup,but ultimately decided against it. If he walked into Cold Oak and shot some seemingly innocent kid for no obvious reason, that would not go over well with anybody. The less people he had to explain his actions to, the better. He still wasn't sure what he would tell Sam, but there was no way he would let some kid with superpowers kill his brother a second time. He could go with the truth, but time travel was a hard sell on a good day, and this was  _not_  a good day. Sam and Bobby were more likely to stick him in a straightjacket or hose him down with holy water than believe he was from two thousand seventeen.

It was almost comical, in a twisted way, that the things they dealt with—technically  _were_  dealing with in two thousand seven—were almost average in comparison to what they would deal with in the future. In two thousand seven, they mostly dealt with ghosts and spirits, a decent amount of monsters, and the stray demon. A humorless chuckle rolled off Dean's lips. Demons—there was a time when the thought of dealing with demons actually scared him. Of course, that was before he went fist-to-face with Lucifer. Before he told Eve, the mother of monsters, to bite him, stabbed a Leviathan through the neck, spent a year in monster hell, and teamed up with the King of Hell to talk to the Father of Murder. That's not to say demons weren't dangerous, because there were plenty that were. They just seemed less of a scary threat and more like . . . a Tuesday night.

Dean's stray thoughts were brought to a halt by the ringing of his cell phone. Hoping against hope that it just might be Sam, he wasted no time digging the phone out of his pocket and flipping it open. "Sammy?"

" _Negatory, but I have information concerning him you're gonna want to hear,"_  the voice on the other end answered.

"Ash." In his haste to get to Sam, Dean had almost forgotten that Sam's wasn't the only life in danger. "Ash, listen, whatever you found, it has caught something or someone's attention. You need to clear out the roadhouse and you and Ellen need to get out of there."

" _How do you . . . ?"_

Dean cut him off. "Doesn't matter how I know, only that I do!" He took a breath, lowering his voice. "Get Ellen and get out of there. Head to Bobby's place. I'll meet you guys there as soon as I can."

" _Dude—"_  He could hear a loud crashing noise in the background before everything went silent.

"Ash? Ash!" Dean looked down at the phone's screen—the call had disconnected. "Damn it!" He slapped the phone shut, resisting the urge to throw it, he pressed the phone against his mouth. After a moment of debate, he flipped the phone back open, pushing the second number on his speed dial. There wasn't enough time for him to go to the roadhouse; he had to get to Sam. Even if time wasn't in short supply, he was still hours away; there was no way he could get there soon enough to be of any use. However, he did know a surly old hunter that wasn't too far away. If they were lucky, maybe Sam's wouldn't be the only life saved today.

* * *

Sam glanced from Andy's torn body to the broken salt line, then back to Ava. That line wasn't broken when I left."

"What? You don't think that I—"

"I'll tell you what I think," he cut her off. "Five months. You're the only one with all that time you can't account for." The more he thought about Ava and the missing time the less it made sense to him. Sam clenched his fists. "That headache you got? Right when the demon got Lily."

"What are you trying to say?" She took a step back in response to Sam's movement toward her.

She looked up at him with such an appalled expression that Sam almost believed her innocent. He hadn't seen it before, but now that he was looking at her,  _really_  looking, he was surprised that he'd missed the differences between the Ava in front of him and the woman he had met five months ago. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing!"

He watched her; Sam knew she was lying, that she was controlling the Acheri demon that was picking them off. He wanted her to admit it, though, because if there was even the slightest chance he was wrong . . .

Ava sniffled once more as she looked away; the scared, upset expression she'd been wearing slipped away. She took a breath, but her response was cut short by another voice echoing off the structures just outside. Sam's heart skipped; he would have known that voice anywhere. On instinct he turned away from Ava, toward the sound of his brother calling to him. It was only for a moment, but it was long enough. The thud of wood hitting wood tore Sam's attention from Dean, but when he turned back it was to an empty room. Ava had used his momentary distraction to disappear.

Sam let out a string of curses that would have made his brother proud; he took a step in the only direction she could have gone, but he hesitated. There was a very real chance Dean had no idea what he just stepped into, and if Ava was controlling demons it would be better to go after her with some backup rather than alone. With that last thought Sam turned and headed out to where he had heard his brother's voice come from.

It took only a few seconds for Sam to locate his brother slogging down the muddied road, canvas bag with supplies over one shoulder and a shotgun at the ready. Relief flooded through him at the visual confirmation that his brother wasn't hurt or worse, that he was alive and well and looked pissed. Sam's eyes scanned the surrounding area for both Ava and Jake as he hurriedly made his way over to Dean. The moment he was within arm's reach, Sam was pulled into a quick but tight hug before Dean took a step back, gripping the side of Sam's neck.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" the words rushed out of Dean as his eyes scrutinized Sam for any visible or hidden injuries. Sam looked tired and a bit dirty, but relatively unscathed.

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean, I'm fine. I mean other than . . ." He gestured to the town surrounding them.

Dean watched him for a moment longer before nodding, satisfied for the moment with his brother's answer. He glanced over Sam's shoulder, keeping a careful eye out for anyone or anything that might pose a threat. "All right." He gave Sam a pat on the shoulder, then let his hand drop back to the shotgun. "Let's get the hell out of here then."

"What?" Sam caught Dean by the arm, stopping him mid-turn. "Dude, we can't just leave."

"Actually I'm pretty sure we can."

"No, Dean, we can't. You don't understand—the yellow-eyed demon brought us here. Me and the other kids like me. He's forcing them— _us_ —to kill each other." Sam took a deep breath, letting his hand drop from Dean's arm. "Ava's controlling a demon. She's already killed Lily and Andy. We have to stop her before she can kill Jake."

"All the more reason for us to leave. Let them fight it out. May the best crazy kid win." He should have known it would be too much to ask for Jake to somehow have fallen, broken his neck or died in some other horrible manner already. He wasn't actually too keen on leaving someone who could control demons, even low level ones, alone to their own devices. Under normal circumstances he would never even consider it, but these weren't normal circumstances, and he felt confident that once one of them killed the other, their next move would be to head to Wyoming and the Devil's Gate. He, Sam, and company could take out the winner there. His biggest concern at the moment was getting his little brother out of frontierland before he joined the body count. "Can we go now?"

"No, we can't." Sam narrowed his eyes. "What's gotten into you?"

"You just said they were controlling demons." Dean gestured to the town.

"Ava is controlling a demon. Jake hasn't done anything to deserve just being left here."

"Yet," Dean replied simply.

"So what, you think he's gonna turn evil? Like Max and Ava and others?" Sam splayed his arms out at his side, his face taking on a look of disbelief.

"Maybe."

Sam shifted his weight, taking a step closer to him. "Like I could?"

Dean resisted the urge to throw his arms up in exasperation.  _Wow, here's a conversation I didn't miss having._  "Sam, for the last time, you're not gonna turn evil."

"You can't know that! Not for sure."

Actually he could, and the irony of the argument is that Sam did technically turn evil, or at least dark. He was manipulated into it, but it still happened. Sam paved his road with the best of intentions. Dean dragged a hand down his face, sighing heavily. Standing in the middle of one of the most haunted towns and having an argument was probably not high on their list of smart ideas. He knew his brother well enough to know Sam would never leave someone he perceived as innocent behind to die. Not when there was a chance to save him. They could finish this argument another time, or better yet, never again.

"Fine," Dean relented with a growl. He dropped the duffle from his shoulder and pointed a finger in Sam's direction. "But we stick together. There's no way I'm letting you out of my sight."

Sam held his hands up in capitulation. "Fine by me."

Dean regarded him for another moment before kneeling down and opening the bag. He pulled out a shotgun, and tossed it to Sam, along with extra shells for his own. Sam caught the weapon with ease, cracking it open to check the rounds inside and shoving extra rounds into his pocket as well.

Dean zipped up the bag and swung it back over his shoulder as he stood. "All right. Tell me about this demon."

* * *

Ten minutes of fruitless searching stretched on to twenty, then thirty, before Sam was stopped by Dean's hand on his arm.

"Sam." Dean shook his head. "I don't think anyone else is here. At least not anymore."

Sam's gaze swept the area; the town wasn't very big, and there were only so many places Ava or Jake could have gone. Jake was supposed to have met him back at the house they had holed up in almost twenty minutes ago, but he hadn't shown. It was possible they had missed him, but he didn't think it was likely. "They have to be here somewhere. Ava won't have left until she's killed all the other children."

Sam pushed on ahead, determined to find Jake or at the very least stop Ava. He had gone a good fifteen feet before he realized that his brother wasn't next to him. Sam turned around to find Dean hadn't moved from his spot at all and was instead leaning forward with a hand pressed against his temple.

"Dean?"Sam started back toward him when the gray molted demon from earlier appeared directly behind his brother. "Dean! Look out!"

The older hunter barely had enough time to turn before he was hurled into the air through the decaying wall of a nearby structure.

"Dean!" Sam fired at the demon, barely missing as it disappeared. He twisted around, scanning the area. He fired off a second shot as it appeared just a few feet in front of him; this time the round hit its mark. The demon dispersed with a shriek of rage. Sam reloaded his shotgun; he knew the salt rounds weren't going to keep the thing away for long. They would need to find Ava to stop the creature. Checking the area once more, Sam moved toward the building the demon had thrown his brother into. The lack of sound coming from inside was more than a little worrisome. Even more so considering Dean had just come out of a coma the day before.

He had only moved a few steps when an unexpected force slammed him into a wall. Before Sam had a chance to recover, the Acheri materialized directly in front of him, thrusting its arm out and into his chest. Sam gasped loudly; an icy fire burned through him as a vice tightened around his heart, squeezing it till it couldn't beat.

* * *

The first thing Dean became aware of was the sensation of his face pressed against something cold and gritty. It was a disconcerting feeling and by far one of his least favorites, as it usually meant for one reason or another he'd been the unwilling participant in naptime. None of those reasons had ever been the result of anything good.  _Well, there was that one time . . ._

The next thing Dean noticed were the noises: they sounded strange, like they were coming through the other end of a long tunnel. Dean brushed the thought to the side for the time being while his mind attempted to recall the events that had led to his extended meeting with the floor. He'd been with Sam, looking for the remaining contestants of Hell's Next Top Model. He'd been seriously considering just knocking his brother unconscious and dragging him out of there when a burst of pain slammed through his skull and stopped him in his tracks. The next thing he remembered was the sight of a very fugly face right before his brief but all-too-often-repeated flight through a wall.

Dean shoved bits of splintered and rotting wood off himself as he rolled onto his side, pushing off the ground and onto his knees. The sound of a shotgun fire followed by an inhuman shriek echoed through the air. Dean forced himself the rest of the way to his feet, stumbling over the mess of debris as he made his way back outside.

He spotted Sam a few houses down the road just as the demon slammed him into a wall and buried its hand into his brother's chest. "Sam!" Dean didn't waste time looking for his missing shotgun, instead grabbing an iron rod lying in the mess that was once a house. His feet slipped against the muddy rain-soaked ground as he took off at a sprint.

Dean was almost in striking distance when the demon disappeared; he didn't spare much thought on why the thing had suddenly decided to split, only caring for the moment that it did. Without the demon's support, Sam fell like a tumbling house of cards, leaving Dean with barely enough time to catch him and control his fall.

Dean lowered him onto the ground, tapping his cheeks. "Sam?" He grabbed the collar of Sam's shirt, giving him a rough shake when he received no answer. "Sam! Come on, man, don't do this. Sam!"

How many times had this scene played out? How many different ways had it happened? How many times had his failures been paid with Sam's blood? Suddenly all he could see were the times he had failed his brother. The first time he arrived at Cold Oak just a few seconds too late. Sam telling him everything was going to be all right just before he jumped into the cage with Lucifer. His brother holding out arms glowing with trial juice, asking him what to do. Sam strapped to a chair while a demon stuck needles into his head.

"No, no, no, no," he repeated in a mantra as he pressed his fingers against Sam's neck, praying for a pulse.

It was the same thing all over again, same dance, just a slightly different tune.

There was nothing, no beat against his fingers, no breath. "Damn it, Sam! I did not come all this way just to fail a second time!" Dean leaned over him as he started CPR reps against his brother's chest.

 _One, two, three . . . fourteen, fifteen . . ._  He counted mechanically, stopping to tip Sam's head back and blow air into his too-still lungs.  _One, two, three_  . . .  _fourteen, fifteen . . ._ Dean forced in another lungful of air then leaned over, listening for sounds of breathing. There was nothing.

_One, two, three . . ._

"I will not let you die, not here, not like this!" He kept his fingers laced over Sam's heart, pressing as hard as he could against his brother's chest.

. . .  _fourteen, fifteen . . ._

"Breathe, damn it!"


	4. Ride the Lightning

  _Wait for a sign_

_To flick the switch of death_

_My fingers grip with fear_

_What am I doing here?_

 

Sam opened his eyes, stretched his arms over his head, and dug his toes deep into the warm sand under him. Sighing contently, he let the sounds of the ocean wash over him and carry him away. He wasn’t sure how he ended up there, but he remembered the location as if he’d never left. It was where he and Jess would often go on the weekends between studying to sit, relax, and just be.

“Sam.” A honeyed voice floated on the wind, weaving its way through the space between them, wrapping itself tightly around Sam’s heart. He felt his pulse hammer against his chest. There were things in his life he would never forget. His name on her lips was one of them. Jess stepped closer and sat down next to him, her shoulder brushing his, sending euphoric sparks across his skin.

“Jess,” he started, his voice thick with all the things he wanted to say, to apologize for.

Jess leaned into him, placing a finger across his lips. “Shh . . .” she whispered. “I know.” She slipped her hand back, resting it against Sam’s cheek. “I know, Sam, it wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.”

Sam leaned into her touch,squeezing his eyes shut. His jaw flexed tightly as feelings and emotions he thought long since buried bubbled to the surface. Sam blinked away stray tears. He reached out to touch her, but hesitated mid motion, afraid his movement might shatter the illusion. Jess folded her hand around his, squeezing it reassuringly. Sam choked back a sob and collapsed into her, wrapping his arms tightly around her and burying his face in her neck. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he let himself cry. He wept for her, for the life that was stolen, for the things they would never get to do, for the family they would never have.

Jess ran her fingers through his hair, murmuring words of comfort as she rocked him soothingly.

“I miss you.”

She smiled softly. “I know. I miss you.”

He tightened his grip around her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her.

Jess laughed delicately. “I know that too.”She pulled away, leaning down to meet his eyes. Her thumbs slid gently over his cheeks, brushing away his tears.“It was never your fault, Sam, but I forgive you all the same.”

Sam’s breath stuttered in his chest; he felt like a weight he didn’t know he had been carrying was suddenly gone. Jess moved her hands along the length of his arms, coming to rest over his. Sam tangled his fingers in hers, squeezing softly and taking a deep breath. He paused, rolling his tongue against his lips. “Am I . . . am I dead?”

“No. You’re not. But you have a choice to make.”

Instinctively, he knew what she was referring to. His shoulders hunched forward over his chest.  “I don’t want to make that choice.”

“I know, love.” Jess smiled, her tears turning her eyes crystal. “I would give anything for you to stay here with me, but . . . there are so many who still need you. You have to fight, Sam. You have to go back.”

Sam shook his head and sniffled, “I don’t want to fight anymore. No one needs me. I’m better off gone—the world is better off.”

“You’re wrong, Sam.” A new voice joined them.

Sam tore his gaze away from his girlfriend; his breath froze at the sight of the newcomer.“Mom?”

Mary knelt down in front of the couple. She brushed her hand across his forehead, pushing back the unruly bangs that refused to stay out of his eyes. “Sammy, I am so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

Sam scrunched his face in confusion. “Never meant for what?”

His mother smiled. “It doesn’t matter right now. Just know it’s not your fault. It never was. For now, what’s important is that you know there are people who still need you.”

“But this evil inside of me. . . the demon blood.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mary interrupted. “It’s _who_ you are, not _what_ you are that’s important.” She brushed away the tears trailing down his face. “Sam, these demons, they will never control you. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. You just have to believe.”

A strangled sound halfway between a sob and a laugh escaped unbidden.“Really, Mom,” he said through tears, “Winnie the Pooh?”

Mary grinned at her youngest son. “It was one of your brother’s favorite stories.”

“Dean,” Sam whispered, looking down at his and Jess’ hands.

Jess squeezed his gently. “Your brother is waiting for you.”

Sam fidgeted, keeping his eyes down. “He’d be better off without me.”

“No.” The hardness in Mary’s voice had Sam snapping his eyes up to her. “Samuel Winchester, I don’t ever want to hear you thinking that. Your brother loves you; he would be lost without you.”

Sam nodded once and looked up at Jess, then his mother. “I miss you.”

“Oh my baby boy, I know.” Mary placed a hand over Sam’s heart. “Jess and I and your father will always be with you—with _both_ of you—and one day, hopefully in the very distant future, we will all be together again.”

Sam whimpered, “Promise?”

“Promise.” This time it was Jess that answered. She kissed Sam’s cheek.

“I’m scared,” Sam admitted shakily; he didn’t know what destiny awaited him, but he was positive it couldn’t be anything good.

Mary rubbed her thumb over Sam’s cheek. “Don’t be scared, Sam.” She let her hand drop, coming to rest on top of his and Jess’. “The road ahead of you and your brother will be a long and hard one. But believe in yourself and each other, and I promise you will make it through.”

Sam pursed his lips and nodded his head, not trusting himself to talk.

Jess cupped the side of Sam’s face, turning his head toward her. “You have to leave now, Sam.” She paused for a beat. “Breathe.”

Sam frowned. _Breathe?_ The beach faded around him, taking the sounds of the ocean with it, leaving in its place a rhythmic thumping and a new voice. One he knew better than any other, it was calling to him, yelling at him.

_“Breathe, damn it!”_

 

 


	5. The New Song

_Watch the falling sand_

_Shifting through his hand_

_Say goodbye to our old selves_

_It's not the end_

 

_One, two, three . . ._

Dean put his weight over his hands, pressing them against Sam's chest, pleading to anyone or anything that would listen. "Damn it, Sam."

_. . . fourteen, fifteen._

He moved to Sam's head, tilting it back and blowing in another lungful of air. Dean turned his head and waited, holding his own breath as he listened for any sign of life.

He was met with a still silence.

Dean felt something snap inside him; with a growl made up of frustration, anger, and desperation Dean slammed his fist down against Sam's chest with enough force to crack a rib. He repeated the action a second then third time. As he brought his hand down for a fourth strike, Sam arched up off the ground, gasping for air so suddenly it caught the older hunter off guard.

He scrambled, grabbing hold of Sam's jacket and turning him on his side, supporting his brother's weight as he dragged in gasping breaths and coughed them back out. "Easy, come on, deep breaths." Dean rubbed his back in small soothing circles. "Take your time, dude, slow breaths."

Dean let his head drop to his chest; the relief flooding through him was so immense it made him lightheaded. Sam was okay: he was breathing, and he was alive. It had been close, far too close for his liking. However, he couldn't let himself relax, not yet. There were still two people unaccounted for wandering around the area, both of which he knew were capable of killing to get what they wanted.

Dean glanced up from his brother to survey the area around them. For the moment, it was calm and silent—not even the normal sounds of nature dared break it. He wasn't all too clear on what happened with the demon, why it had suddenly vanished. He doubted it was out of the goodness of its dark twisted little heart. Sam had said something about Ava controlling the demon, so he supposed it was possible something happened to her that caused the demon to disperse for the moment, though he supposed it was enough that the demon was gone. The important thing was to be gone before it or the one controlling it decided to return to finish what was started.

Dean returned his attention back to his brother. Harsh coughs were still tearing their way through Sam's frame, but they were gradually getting fewer and further between; deeper, slower breaths were steadily taking their place. Dean sucked his teeth, considering his options. He would prefer to give Sam a chance to catch his breath—he knew what it was like to have something try to squeeze the life out of you via your heart. It had happened enough times. He knew that his brother had to be hurting and would probably be sore for the next day or so.

However, Dean could use Sam's currently dazed state to get him the hell out of Dodge without argument. It was a bit underhanded, but it was nothing Sam hadn't done to him before, and turnabout  _was_  fair play.

Dean reached down, wrapping his hands into the front of Sam's jacket, and hauled him upwards so he was sitting up. "Sorry, kiddo, it's time to go." Dean waited a beat, then heaved Sam onto his feet.

As soon as he was upright, Sam's knees buckled, threatening to send him back to the muddy ground. "Whoa, easy does it." Dean adjusted his grip, drawing his brother's arm over his shoulders in an effort to support as much of Sam's weight as he could. "All right, little brother, what do you say we blow this popsicle stand?"

* * *

Dean glanced over at his brother, who was partly curled up, sleeping against the passenger side door. Sam had woken long enough to play twenty questions— _Are you ok? Where does it hurt? On a scale from one to ten? Do you know your name? The date? Who I am?_ — and answered them all passably, if somewhat groggily. They weren't that far out from Bobby's house, so Dean didn't see the harm in letting Sam sleep. After everything that happened over the last few days, he could only imagine how exhausted the younger hunter must be. There was also the added benefit that by the time Sam woke up—coherent enough to realize they ducked out of Cold Oak, leaving Hell's rising stars behind—it would be too late for Sam to do anything beyond giving him the bitch face. Dean could deal with a bitchy Sam. After Gadreel and the events that followed right after, a bitchy Sam would be a cakewalk. Those years . . . Dean absently rubbed his right arm. They had pushed all of them to the edge, and some of them over.

Dean shook his head, knocking the thoughts loose. This was his second chance; he didn't want to dwell on the bad things in his past . . . future . . . future self's past. He dug a knuckle against his eye. Their life was hard. It was bloody, it was messy, and it was thankless, but it wasn't terrible. There were moments of happiness. Memories to be cherished, to hold onto tightly when everything else went to hell.

Dean recalled one of those moments with Sam and Castiel: he remembered the last night they spent together. They had raided the rations for what may have been the world's last bag of popcorn and watched a movie. The movie had been picked at random by Cas, some old as dirt flick he couldn't recall the name of. He did, however, remember that the movie had been about time travel, because Sam and Cas had spent almost the whole movie in a debate over time travel, paradoxes, and something about multi-verse. At one point the conversation had moved to moral implications involved in changing the past. They both tried to drag him into the conversation, wanting his opinion, but he bowed out, claiming he'd done enough  _actual_  time traveling.

Maybe the movie hadn't been as random as he thought.

Sam mumbled something in his sleep, drawing Dean back into the present. He glanced over at his sleeping brother and smiled. He had done it. He actually changed the past. Sam didn't die, he didn't sell his soul, he wouldn't go to Hell, the first seal would remain intact, and that meant no apocalypse. It also meant that all the stuff that followed after wouldn't happen either. All they had to do was survive the next day or two and kill Azazel, and then they would be home free, in a manner of speaking.

Dean pulled into Singer Salvage yard, the car bouncing softly against the potted dirt road. It was just as he remembered it before the leviathans turned it into a smoking crater. As he pulled to a stop, he reached over and shook Sam's shoulder. "Hey, rise and shine, Rapunzel."

"Aurora," came back a muffled, sleepy reply.

Dean pulled his head back, his eyebrows shooting upwards. "What?" Maybe that demon did more damage than he originally thought.

Sam turned in his seat, rolling his shoulders as he stretched out. "Rapunzel had the hair." He gestured with one hand to his own head. "Aurora was Sleeping Beauty."

Dean opened his mouth, then snapped it shut; he shook his head and pushed down the laughter that was threatening to bubble up. "You're such a girl."

Not waiting for Sam's reply, he pushed open his door and stepped out, taking a moment to stretch his sore and cramped muscles. A quiet hush lay over the area, like the world holding its breath, waiting for the next move. It seemed oddly appropriate.

"We're at Bobby's," Sam stated as he pulled himself from the car.

"Good to see your brain wasn't completely scrambled." Dean moved around to the trunk of the car, pulled out a canvas bag, and swung it over his shoulder. There were a few weapons that were in dire need of being cleaned. He closed the trunk and had started to move toward Bobby's house when Sam stopped him with a hand on his chest. Dean glanced from the hand back up to his brother's face. "Sam?"

Sam licked his lips and shifted his feet, hesitation clearly written on his face. "Dean, what happened?"

It was Dean's turn to hesitate: he rubbed his thumb across his bottom lip. "The demon—"

"Acheri."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever. It tried to rip your heart out, then it disappeared, and then we left."

"Disappeared? What about Jake and Ava?"

Dean adjusted the duffle on his back. "I was too busy trying to save your ass to care where Hell's Bobbsey Twins were."

Surprise raced across Sam's face. "So, what, you just left them there? Dean, what the hel—"

Dean held his hand up, effectively cutting off his brother's tirade before it could really get started. "Look, right now we have bigger problems to worry about." He stepped around Sam and headed up to the house. "You're just going to have to trust me, man," he called out over his shoulder.

Dean climbed up the stairs to Bobby's house; he could hear Sam's feet crunching against the gravel not far behind him. He raised his hand to knock on the door, only to have it pulled open before he got the chance.

"'Bout time you idjits got here. You lose the ability to answer a phone?"

Dean thought he had been prepared; he had talked briefly with Bobby on his way to Cold Oak. It had caused a surge of emotions, but they had been shoved brutally to the side in favor of more pressing issues.

Now that he was standing there in front of the man that had been a surrogate father to him. . . . Now that he could smell the rot gut whiskey, the dusty old books, and the stale air that begged for a good cleaning. . . . Now that he could reach out and feel the dirty but warm flannel and the solid presence beneath the it. . . . It was overwhelming, like a sucker punch to the gut.

He could hear Sam and Bobby talking; he knew he should be paying attention, that he was going to give himself away, but he couldn't seem to gather his thoughts. In his time, _his_  Bobby had died almost five years ago. Sam had seen and talked to Bobby a few times after that, but  _he_  hadn't. The last time he talked to the old hunter, they were burning the flask that tied his ghost to earth. Seeing him again, alive and well, was like tearing open an old wound while covering it with a cool balm at the same time.

"Dean!"

He jumped at the sound of his name and the accompanying snap of fingers directly in front of him. Dean looked up to find both Sam and Bobby giving him worried looks. _Awesome._

"Nice of you to join us here in the real world," Bobby grunted.

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face, pressing his palms against his eyes. "Sorry. I . . ." He let out a slow breath of air. "Ellen and Ash here?"

Bobby exchanged a look with Sam before swinging his gaze back to him. "As I just finished telling your brother, no." He paused, his voice going a degree softer. "Whatever hit the roadhouse got them both, along with a good handful of other hunters."

"Both of them? Bobby, are you sure? Ellen—"

"Yeah, son, both of them. There wasn't much left, but . . . there was enough. Whatever it is that Ash knew, it must have been important to someone."

Dean let his eyes fall shut. It was his fault—he tried to save one and got two killed instead.

"You two going to come in, or we just gonna stand around like gossiping wives?" Bobby stepped back from the door, waiting for him and Sam to enter.

"Do you know what Ash found out?" Sam asked as he walked through the kitchen into the living room. He stopped at Bobby's desk, glancing at the various books and maps spread across its surface.

Dean followed in close behind his brother; he let the conversation float around him, paying only enough attention to know if one of them asked him something. He glanced down at the map of Wyoming as Bobby gestured to it, specifically to southern Wyoming. Dean vaguely remembered this, the old frontier churches, the railroads that formed a giant devil's trap, and the devil's gate at the center.

He remembered enough that they wouldn't have to spend the next day or so trying to figure it out. He would tell them that Ash had shared the information; there really hadn't been a chance to hint otherwise. They could get the Colt from whichever person had it, kill Azazel, stop the gate from opening, and keep hundreds of demons and spirits from— _shit._ They had to let the devil's gate open. There was no choice. His father used the opening of the devil's gate to escape from Hell; he couldn't leave his father to suffer in the pit. Not only that, but according to Alistair his father had been the first choice as the righteous man, the one meant to break the seal. His Dad was strong, tough, and one stubborn son of a bitch, but he wasn't unbreakable. Eventually he would break, and with him the first seal. His father didn't deserve that kind of guilt; he deserved peace, and he deserved rest. If that meant releasing a few hundred demons and spirits into the world, he was okay with that. While very annoying, they weren't that hard to deal with as long as you played smart.

"—think whatever Yellow Eyes wants has something to do with what's going on there?" Sam gestured back to the map as he leaned against the desk.

"That's where I'd put my money. The question is, what's going on there and why are the demons circling?" Bobby lifted his ball cap, running his hand through his thinning hair before returning it to its place.

Dean chewed on his lower lip, debating on how much he could say or even  _should_  say. He was pretty sure there were rules about those things; though if that was true he was equally sure that he had already broken most if not all of them already, so . . .  _Screw it_.

"Bobby, you have a map of that area?" He pointed to the southern half of Wyoming.

The old hunter gave a nod and moved to a shelf stacked haphazardly with papers and books.

"Dean?" Sam asked curiously, moving to stand closer to his brother.

Dean turned his attention to his brother, ignoring the unasked question and offering up his own. "You okay?"

"What?" Confusion chased across Sam's face at the abrupt topic change.

Dean gestured to Sam's chest. "That demon, plus everything else that's happened."

"I'm fine, man. I mean, a little tired and sore, but otherwise I'm fine." Sam paused, tilting his head to the side as he studied his brother. "Are  _you_  okay?"

Dean gave a half grin, turning his attention to the Bobby and the large now unfolded map of Southern Wyoming. "Before we got cut off Ash was telling me about what he found," he started while looking around for the pen or marker.

"Wait, you knew what he found?" Sam picked up a marker from a nearby side table and held it out for him. "Why didn't you say something?"

"I'm saying it now." He took the marker; he recalled one of the churches had been pretty close to Rock Springs. The rest, however, he couldn't remember the exact spots, but he was pretty sure as long as he got within the general vicinity of them he would be fine. Dean marked the map with five X's, one by Rock Springs, one near the south border, two below route two eighty-seven, and one to the east.

Sam placed his hands on the desk as he leaned over to inspect the map. "What are the X's for?" He glanced up at his brother.

"Frontier churches," he replied, not looking up as he started to connect each point. "Samuel Colt built them and then connected them with railway lines that happen to lie like—" He drew the last line and then stood up, capping the marker and pressing his palm against it. He was almost proud of himself for remembering even the general locations of the churches, considering how long ago it was for him.

Sam turned the map toward him. "Is that a—?"

"One hundred square mile devil's trap."

"And Samuel Colt built it?" Sam ran his hand through his hair, his face lighting up like a child's. "Like  _the_  Samuel Colt—demon killing, gun making Samuel Colt?"

Dean nodded. "That's what Ash said."

"That's . . . brilliant." Sam looked up, his eyes bouncing from Bobby to Dean. "All those omens Bobby found. I mean the demons—they must be circling, because they can't get in. Which means it still works."

"Yeah, well . . . they're trying." Bobby folded his arms cross his chest. "The question is, what was Colt trying to protect?"

Dean pointed with the marker to the center of the pentagram. "According to Ash, at the center is an old cowboy cemetery, and in the cemetery"—he paused, shifting his gaze from the map to Bobby then Sam—"is a devil's gate."

"Devil's gate?"

Bobby brushed a hand across his mouth. "Shit," he mumbled, shaking his head. At Sam's questioning gaze, Bobby continued, "A gate to Hell. If the demons open it . . ."

"Could they do it, Bobby? Could they get inside?" Sam asked.

Bobby shook his head, gesturing down at the map. "This thing's so powerful, you'd practically need an A-bomb to destroy it. No way a full-blood demon gets across."

Sam rolled his lips against his teeth. "No." He started glancing at the map, then back up to the other hunters. "But I know who could. Two, in fact."

 


	6. All Within My Hands

_All within my hands_

_Squeeze it in, crush it down_

_Hold it dear_

 

It was quiet for the moment; even the normal sounds of nature seemed reluctant to break the unnatural hush. Sam shifted his attention across the old cemetery to where his brother stood with his back against a large tombstone.

Once they found out that the yellow-eyed demon wanted to open gates to Hell, he and Bobby had wanted to leave right away to find and stop Ava or Jake from reaching the gate. Dean, however, pointed out that intercepting them at the gate would be the best plan, as a devil's trap that was a hundred miles across meant there were three hundred and fourteen miles in which someone could enter the trap.

Sam couldn't deny Dean was right: with that much area, there was no possible way they'd be able to find Jake or Ava. He hadn't been surprised that his brother knew that; Dean was a lot smarter than he pretended to be. He  _was_  surprised that Dean had stepped back and thought it through. His brother wasn't stupid, not by any stretch of the word, but he did tend to favor the  _shoot first and search the bodies for answers_ method.

Of course, that wasn't the only thing his brother had done in the last day or so that felt a bit out of character. Leaving a person who could control demons to their own devices in Cold Oak? That wasn't even close to normal Dean Winchester behavior. It was possible he was just overreacting. Maybe Dean just wasn't feeling on top of his game; he was forced into this mess directly after being in a coma, one they hadn't even had time to figure out the cause of.

Sam released a slow and silent breath, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind for the moment as the soft crunch of dirt alerted them to the presence of another entering the graveyard.

_Showtime._

Sam waited until the footsteps passed by his hiding spot and came to a stop in front of the Devil's Gate before he stepped out. He didn't need to look to Dean or Bobby to know they were doing the same.

"Ava." Sam leveled his weapon at the figure in front of him.

A mirthless laugh crossed the area as the woman's shoulders relaxed and her head dropped back. Sam's eyebrows shot upwards toward his hairline. He hoped that he could talk Ava down, maybe reason with her. Yes, she had killed Lily, Andy, and possibly Jake, but that didn't mean he wanted to add  _her_  death to  _his_  conscience.

Ava turned around slowly, a honeyed smile gracing her lips. "Sam." She drew out his name. "I should have known you'd make it out. Out of everyone else there . . ."

"Guess I'm a little harder to kill."

She snorted. "If Jake hadn't interrupted me, you would have been dead along with the rest."

"Jake—"

"Is dead," she cut him off and gave a nonchalant shrug. "At least he was well on his way when I left him choking on his own blood."

Sam felt sick; he knew they should never have left Cold Oak without finding Jake and stopping Ava. Now Jake was dead and they— _he_ —had that much more blood on his hands. Sam shook his head. "How could you?"

"I had no choice." She spread her hands out at her side, the Colt still clutched in her right. "I was trapped there for months, and people . . . they just kept showing up. Children, like us. They came in batches of three, sometimes four at a time."

"And you what? Killed them all?" Dean asked, his Colt 1911 aimed steadily, ready to take his shot.

Ava spared Dean a quick glance and then shrugged as if it was no big deal. "It was them or me. You know, after a while it was easy. Kinda fun, even." She smiled and looked back at Sam. "At least once you stop fighting it."

"Fighting what?" Sam was almost afraid to know the answer.

Ava took a step toward him, and he could hear Dean and Bobby on either side of him shift, preparing to fire if needed, but she stopped after a single step.

"Who we are, Sam. If you'd just quit your hand-wringing and open yourself up, you have no idea what you can do."

Sam shook his head; he didn't want to hear this.

"The learning curve is so fast, it's crazy, the switches that just flip in your brain." She flicked her fingers next her head and let out a laugh. "And to think I started out having dreams. Do you know what I can do now?"

"Control demons," Sam growled.

"You always were quick on the draw, but there's more, so much more." Her eyes flickered over to Dean then back to Sam, the same honeyed smile pressing her lips.

Sam felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Ava," he said warningly.

"For instance, did you know," she started, raising her free hand up, "that you can increase the pressure in a person's head until their brain just . . . pops."

Sam took a step forward. "Ava, don—"

"Sonofa—" Dean dropped to his knees, his Colt 1911 slipping from his hands as he pressed his palms against his head.

"Dean!" Bobby shouted, taking a step forward.

Sam lifted his weapon and thumbed the hammer back. "Ava, stop!"

"Shoot her," Dean forced out between clenched teeth, curling inward till his forehead was pressed against the ground.

Sam looked from Ava to his brother; even from a distance he could hear his breath coming out in quick, shallow pants. Each exhale accompanied by a keening whimper. Sam turned back to Ava. "I won't ask again. Let. Him. Go."

Ava held her closed fist up. "What are you going to do, Sam? Shoot me? I'll turn your brother's brain to soup before you get a shot off."

"Ava, please." His voice softened.

She shifted her weight across her hips, a self-satisfied smirk creasing her face. "Put down your weapons." She clenched her fist tighter, inciting another cry of pain from Dean. "Now."

Sam held up both hands in surrender. "All right. All right." He slowly placed the weapon on the ground as Bobby did the same, and then he stood up just as gingerly, keeping his hands up and unthreatening. "Now let my brother go."

Ava merely smiled her response as she turned toward the Devil's Gate. The moment her back was turned, Sam closed the distance between he and Dean, sliding to his knees on the ground beside him.

"Dean?" Sam whispered as he shifted the unconscious hunter onto his back. His breathing was fast and strained; blood dripped freely from both his nose and ears. His mouth and chin was covered in the sticky substance, though Sam couldn't be sure if it was from the nosebleed or something else. Sam tapped Dean's cheek, trying to rouse him while ignoring the gunshot that cracked through the air behind him.

Dean's eyes fluttered. A small groan rolled out.

"Come on, Dean. That's it."

Dean blinked slow and heavy.

The sound of metal grinding and two more gunshots shattered the otherwise still air. Sam spared a glance up in time to see Bobby standing over Ava's corpse with the Colt in his hand.

"Oh, no." Bobby backed away from the door and turned, moving to the opposite side of Dean and grabbing his arm. "Get him up."

"Bobby, what is it?" Sam grabbed the other arm, and together they hauled Dean to his feet. He mumbled a "sorry" as the sudden change in orientation ripped something caught between a cry and a growl from his brother.

"Hell breaking loose," Bobby growled as they all but dragged Dean between them, ducking down behind a large set of headstones as they dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Sam crouched over Dean, using his own body to shield his brother's as the gate burst open with an explosive force. Black smoke twisted and rolled out, rising upwards into the sky. Lightning flashed and cracked as spirits and other beings began to spill forth.

"We gotta shut that gate!" Bobby yelled over the wind that whipped around them.

Sam nodded and took the Colt from Bobby; he grabbed Dean's hand, placed the weapon in it, and cupped the side of his brother's face, hoping the hunter was coherent enough to listen. "Stay here!"

Dean's unfocused gaze slid down to the weapon as Sam and Bobby moved out of his view. His limbs felt like they were being filled with lead, and his head was pounding out a cadence in time with his heart. He wanted nothing more than to "stay there" and just sleep the rest of this day through, but there was one more thing to take care of. Just one last thing, and then he was going to sleep for a year. Sam and Bobby could handle the escaped demons; most of them would be fighting amongst themselves anyway.

Dean took a few shuddering breaths, dragging his hand up the headstone in search of something to grab onto as leverage, and pulled himself up. The movement caused starbursts to explode behind his eyelids. Breathing heavily through his nose, he let the stone bear his weight as he waited for the world to stop its drunken weave across his vision.

Through the cacophony of wind and thunder and other sounds he couldn't give name to, he heard the sound of footsteps directly behind him—the yellow-eyed demon.

Dean turned and aimed the Colt, but the world refused to move properly with him. Before Dean could do much more than sway unsteadily, he felt the weapon ripped from his grip.

"Boys shouldn't play with Daddy's guns."

" _Sonofa—"_ was as far as Dean got before he was airborne and slammed face-first into a headstone. Pain exploded through his skull with an intensity that shook through to the marrow of his bones. Pressing his palm against his forehead, he used his other hand to lever himself up and back against the grave marker. His breath shook in and out through his teeth as he worked to pull his feet back under him, but before he could make any real progress, an unseen force slammed him back against the hard edge of the stone.

"Sit a spell."

Dean groaned, grimacing as pain spiked through him, protesting the continued abuse. He cracked his eyes open long enough to trail over to Bobby and Sam, who were preoccupied trying to close the gate.

Azazel walked lazily toward him. "So . . . Dean. It would seem I misjudged you." He crouched down in front of the hunter.

Dean dragged his gaze back to the demon, swallowing convulsively in an effort to not be sick. He hazily wondered if the demon would kill him just on principal if he puked all over his shoes. Dean returned his attention outward as realized he was being monologued at.

"You see, only one kid was supposed to walk out of Cold Oak . . . once all the others were dead, and yet you . . ." The demon stretched out the end of the sentence in an almost singsong-type voice. "You bent the rules." He smiled and wagged a finger at Dean. "That I wasn't counting on. Can't say I'm disappointed—always liked Sam best, anyhow. But I had to wonder: how does one pathetic, self-loathing, self-destructive child manage to break the rules? So I looked." He shook his head, making a  _tsk_ ing noise. "Dean, Dean, Dean. You know . . ." He leaned in close. "Time travel is cheating." Azazel winked as he leaned back.

The cold pit in his stomach rose up, lodging itself in his throat. "What?" Dean blinked, his vision tilting and teetering unsteadily.

A smirk stretched across Azazel's face. "You thought I couldn't see? Come now, Dean, even you have to be smarter than that."

Dean let his head—the only thing he could actually move—fall back against the gravestone; he couldn't believe he forgot. Not that he would have been able to protect himself had he remembered. In his defense, it had been nine years, forty-nine if you count Hell—but he never liked to count Hell—since he first heard Azazel's name. At the time, he was sure he'd heard it before, somewhere, so he did a little digging on it. He never told anyone what he found because Azazel was dead; it didn't matter anymore, but he did learn that the yellow-eyed demon wasn't  _just_  a demon. He was . . . "Grigori. You were . . . among the first . . . of the fallen angels." Dean pressed against the unseen force holding him, a wince crossing his face. "You taught man . . . how to make . . . weapons."

"Jewelry as well, but who's counting?" He smirked. "The point is . . ." He dragged the word out. "I can see inside you, Dean Winchester, and it is an interesting mixture of the present and future." Azazel tapped his thumb against his chin. "Unfortunately, I can't"—he paused, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully—"see what you've seen."

Dean snorted. "Should count yourself . . . lucky. Horror show . . . in there."

"I could let you live. The foreknowledge you have could be advantageous. See what we can force out of you before you burn yourself out in about, oh, six months, give or take."

Dean's brow furrowed deeply at the demon's words.  _Burn himself out?_

The demon continued. "However, seeing as you have a penchant for causing trouble . . ." He stood up and leveled the Colt at Dean. "It's been fun. But good things must come to an end."

Azazel's finger tightened around the trigger; Dean blinked. It felt like only a moment, but by the time his eyes opened again, the Colt was on the ground next to him. He grabbed the gun, lined the shot up just as Azazel stood, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot echoed throughout the cemetery like a crack of lightening.

Dean braced a hand against the gravestone and sluggishly pushed himself to his feet; his eyes trailed away from the now dead demon and fixed onto the man standing only feet away from him. Dean felt the ground shift out from under him.

"Dad . . ." Dean slurred. It wasn't like he hadn't expected to see his father. It was the whole reason why he let Azazel's brat reach the gate, and much like when he came face to face with Bobby for the first time in years—there was just no way to prepare for it. There was a confusing rush of emotions that ran through him and pounded against his heart, leaving him breathless. He felt as though he had lost his father both a year and decade ago. There were so many things he wanted to say, to ask, to apologize for.

His father stepped closer, laying his hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezing gently, but he didn't look at him. Instead his dad had his eyes closed and his face tilted slightly downward like he was listening to something.

"Dad, I . . ." He felt tremors race across his arms into his chest and sweep across his body. He wanted to say, "Sorry," but the word didn't seem quite big enough to cover everything.

John's steady gaze rose to meet his eldest son's; he cupped the side of Dean's neck. "I know, son." He smiled tearfully. "It's okay."

Dean felt something break deep inside. He wanted so desperately to grab hold of the absolution his father was offering him. But it wasn't okay, and he didn't know, couldn't know. His sins were so much worse than his father could ever imagine. The deals he'd made, the things he'd done . . . what he became. He wanted to tell him but couldn't seem to grasp the air needed to form words.

John smiled again and squeezed the back of Dean's neck. He then looked over to his youngest son and took a step back from them both. A moment later, he was gone.

Dean stared at the spot his father had occupied; silent tears slid down his cheeks, carving a path through the blood and the dirt. He felt a weight on his arm and turned to find his brother standing next to him. Dean's brow furrowed as he realized that Sam was talking, but it was like someone had pressed the mute button. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but the world turned viciously on its side.

* * *

It was the silence after a storm that was always the loudest, the absence of sound when the world took a deep breath and attempted to right itself. The stillness, it had a physical presence that pressed in, surrounded, and threatened to drown you in its deafening roar.

Dean had never been a fan of the quiet moments. The lack of noise always allowed too much space for thinking, for the demons that waited patiently to wake and take a long overdue breath. In the last year he hadn't had to worry too much about the silence. There was always something going on in the bunker, someone working on something. It provided a constant stream of noise that Dean found comforting, despite the world that was crumbling around them.

It was the silence that pulled Dean from his sleep, his eyebrows squished together as he tried to decipher  _why_  it was so quiet. Knowing he would get no answers from the back of his eyelids, Dean resigned himself to waking. His lids felt like they had been glued together; he dragged the back of his hands across them to rub the sleep away. Dean blinked slowly, confusion flickering across his face as his sleep-addled brain worked to catch up with the most recent events.

He was in two thousand and seven, and if memory served him right—his gaze swept lazily over his surroundings—he was in Bobby's guest room. Sort of a guest room: it had a single full size bed pushed to the far side under some double windows, but the majority of the room was cluttered with stacked boxes, worn books, and random odds and ends. Sometime within the next year Bobby would clean the room up, acquire a second bed, and it would become a place for him and Sam to crash. Their home without wheels.

A deep rumble scattered Dean's thoughts; he placed a hand against his stomach, only then realizing how very hungry he was. He decided that any further thoughts could wait until after he'd eaten. A glance out the window as he pushed himself out of bed told him that it was still early morning. Sunlight was just starting to stretch up from the horizon, chasing away the night in a show of red and purple.

Dean threw his legs over the side of the bed; he glanced down at himself, taking in the dark grey sweatpants and black T-shirt he was currently wearing. It was always slightly disconcerting when he woke up in something other than what he remembered wearing last. Dean shrugged the thought off; at least it was better than waking up in dirty jeans and a grimy shirt.

Making his way down the stairs, a smile crossed Dean's face as the smell of bacon invaded his senses. His stomach gave another hungry growl as he headed through the study and into the kitchen.

"Smells good," Dean stated as he padded across the kitchen and pulled out a chair to sit in.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder and let out a small snort. "If I knew cooking bacon was all I had to do to get your lazy butt out of bed I would've done so days ago."

Dean cocked his head to the side. "Days?"

Bobby nodded, flipping the bacon. "You've been in and out of it for . . ." He paused, scratching the side of his beard. "Little bit over two days now."

Dean dragged a hand across his face as he leaned back in his chair. "Huh."

Bobby picked up the coffee pot, poured a cup, and set it in front of the young hunter. "Had your brother worried sick. He was afraid you'd fall back into a coma."

"Coma?"

"Mmm." He returned to the stove, sliding the bacon onto a plate. "Sam told me you fell into one just before . . ." He gestured vaguely.

"Oh." He had forgotten about that, brushing it off as no big deal since he knew what caused it. Dean glanced around the room. "Where is Sam?" His brother liked to hover when he was worried about someone, so Dean was a little surprised that the young man was nowhere in sight.

"Sent him out for some supplies, was driving me nuts."

Dean snorted into his cup of coffee; he couldn't blame the older hunter. There had been a good many occasions when Sam's fretting had made him want to lock his little brother in the trunk of the Impala for a few days.

"He should be back—" Bobby cut himself off as the roar of the Impala broke through the air. "—there he is now." Bobby turned from the stove, placing a plate of bacon and another plate full of scrambled eggs on the table.

Dean waited for Bobby to serve himself before filling his own plate and digging in. He took a moment to savor the food. It wasn't anything extravagant, but to him it tasted like a treasure. He couldn't remember the last time he ate something that didn't have the shelf life of an eternity.

"You want some alone time with that?" Bobby asked as he leaned back against the counter with his own plate.

Dean opened his mouth to give a retort but was saved by the sound of the front door and his brother's excited—

"You're awake!"

Dean couldn't help the smile that crossed his face at the sight of his brother's look of relief. "Bobby made food." Dean pointed to the plate at the center of the table.

Sam placed the two plastic bags he'd been carrying into the fridge. He turned, studying his brother carefully like he was afraid Dean might keel over at any moment. "Was worried you weren't going to, uh . . . you were pretty out of it."

Dean gave his brother a lopsided grin, wanting to reassure him, erase the deep lines of worry that were marring his face. "Sorry, little brother, gonna take more than that to get rid of me."

"Funny." Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean could see the corner of his mouth quirk up as he retrieved a plate from the cupboard.

Dean fidgeted. "So, uh, did Dad . . ." He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he wanted to make sure. "Did he really . . ."

Sam shared a look with Bobby and then lowered himself into a chair across the small table. "Yeah, I mean at least it seems that way. If anyone could, it'd be him."

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth and nodded. His heart ached for his father with a sharpness that surprised him. He wished the man was here; he always knew what to do and how to do it, but the most he could hope for was that his dad was currently sharing a heaven with his mom. Dean cleared his throat, pressing the thoughts down. "So, what exactly happened?"

"What do you remember?"

Dean ran a thumb across his forehead, looking down at his half-empty plate. "I remember Ava, the gate opening, then Azazel—"

"Azazel?" Sam asked.

He glanced up. "Yeah, Azazel, he—" Dean cut himself off, wincing inwardly.  _They wouldn't know the name. Not yet, at least._ He scraped a hand through his hair and leaned back against the chair. "Yeah, Azazel was the name of the yellow-eyed demon."

"How'd you find that out?" Sam's brow drew together.

"He, uh, he told me."

"Told you?" Bobby regarded Dean over the lip of his coffee.

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah, well, you know how demons like to hear the sound of their own voice." His lips parted in a slow breath as the two hunters seemed to buy the excuse. It wasn't a big slipup, but he was going to have to be more careful with what he said. At least until he decided on his next course of action.

Sam released a snort of laughter.

"Something you wanna share with the class?" Dean gestured between himself and Bobby.

"The demon's dead." Sam's eyes darted up to meet his brother's. "The thing we spent our entire lives hunting is finally dead."

Dean pushed his plate away, picked up his coffee, and took a deep drink. "Guess this means you're going back to school, huh?" He didn't want Sam to go back, but he also didn't want his brother to spend the rest of his life resenting the missed opportunity.

Sam pressed his lips into a tight line. "I'm not going back. At least not yet."

Dean raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "You're not?"

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Bobby, sharing a look with the older hunter.

Dean looked between the two hunters. "What?"

Bobby put his cup down on the counter and folded his arms across his chest. "Your daddy wasn't the only thing that escaped the other night. A hundred demons also got through. Maybe two hundred."

Dean tapped his fingers against his cup, and then he turned his palm upward against the table. "What's that got to do with Sammy going back to school?" He already knew about the demons—he had been expecting it. Last time they didn't really show themselves as much of a problem. Too much infighting while they fought for a new leader.

Sam's eyebrows snapped together. "Dean, an army of demons got free. I can't just go to school and pretend it didn't happen. There's a war starting."

Dean leaned in, placing his forearms on the table, and he made sure he had his brother's full attention. "Sam, if you want to go back to school, you should. Bobby and I and other hunters can take care of the demons that got out." He paused, letting the words sit between them for a moment before continuing. "If you want to stay and help, that's fine. Hell, it's great. I would love to have your help cleaning this mess up. But—" Dean gestured to his brother to emphasize his words. "It  _has_  to be your choice. What you want for yourself. Understand?"

Sam looked at him with a blank, slack expression, and Dean could tell that that was the last thing he had expected to hear. Dean couldn't really blame him; he had spent years trying to push the importance of hunting onto his brother. And it was important. They saved lives, destroyed evil, but those things didn't have to come at the cost of their happiness, at least not his brother's. He wanted his brother to continue hunting with him, but he also wanted it to be Sam's choice this time. It was important.

Sam pursed his lips into a thin line and then finally nodded his head in understanding.

"Good." Dean grinned widely at his brother and Bobby. "Now," he started, pointing upwards to the area above the stove. "Someone want to tell me why the ceiling is black?"

Bobby snorted in something caught between annoyance and amusement. "That would be your brother's attempt at making dinner last night. Let's just say you should be thankful you were still out cold."

Sam spun around in his seat, his hands spread wide. "I told you that wasn't my fault. Your stove —" He pointed to the offending object.

"Has nothing wrong with it," Bobby cut him off.

Dean chuckled lightly as he let Bobby and Sam's argument wash over him. He was still having a hard time believing he actually managed to change history and save Sam at Cold Oak. It wasn't the main purpose of his coming back, but he couldn't ignore the fact that in doing so he had removed a very big domino piece from the table. Dean tilted his cup, studying its contents, his smile slipping away with his thoughts. Saving his brother, not selling his soul—he doubted it would stop the Hollow Men, but at the very least it would help keep a lot of crap from happening. It was a win, a win he should be happy about it, but instead Dean only felt a cold, heavy pit in his stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note: The Yellow-Eyed Demon Azazel, according to the SPN mythos Azazel was a fallen Angel that is why his eyes were yellow. According to the first book of Enoch Azazel was one of the ten chief Grigori and was responsible for showing man how to make weapons and jewelry. The research I did on Azazel was done before the episode "Angel Heart" was aired, I had no idea they were going to pull out the Grigori.


	7. In the Small Hours-Part I

_Look out at the darkness, and you will see._

_Just call my name and I'll be there._

_You cannot touch me, you would not dare._

_I am the chill that's in the air._

 

Bobby leaned back against his car and watched the familiar shape of the well-cared-for sixty-seven Chevy Impala roll up the driveway. He could see both boys talking rather animatedly through the car’s windshield. _Well_ , Bobby thought quietly, _that either means they are excited about something or—_

“Sam!” Dean growled as he shoved open the car’s door then slammed it behind him. “I swear, one more word and I will lock you in the trunk for a week.” He shot a glare over the top of the car.

 _—are arguing about something_.

 “Look, Dean, I’m just saying—”

“Well, don’t! Nothing is wrong.”

Bobby lifted an eyebrow; he hoped it wasn’t anything serious. A pissed Dean and sulky Sam were poor hunting partners and made him want to rap their heads together at the best of times. Not that they fought often, but their fights had a habit of stemming from the weirdest things. Though, not having any siblings of his own, he could only guess it was normal.

He waited until they stood in front of him before asking, “Trouble in paradise?”

“No. Everything’s fine,” Dean bit out as he gave his brother a pointed look.

Sam rolled his eyes and held his hands in mock surrender, but beyond a clearly exasperated sigh, he chose to remain quiet.

“Right,” Bobby said slowly, his gaze resting on Sam for a moment; it was clear everything was not fine. From the little he heard, he guessed Sam was upset about something and Dean was brushing off his concern in true Dean Winchester fashion. However, he knew better than to push for answers when Dean was in a mood. Besides, they had more important things to tend to at the moment, and he’d have better luck asking Sam later.

“Those cicadas?” Dean glanced over his shoulder to the overgrown area beyond the front yard.  “Kinda early, aren’t they?”

Sam followed Dean’s gaze, then shifted it back to Bobby as the older hunter gave a nod. “So, Bobby, what do you think? Biblical plague or maybe something else?”

Bobby shrugged and pushed himself off the car. “Let’s find out.” He walked past them to the stairs to the house. “Looks like the swarm’s ground zero.”

He took another glance around the area as Dean pounded on the door yelling, “Candy Gram!” When no answer came forth Dean knelt down and started to pick the lock as he and Sam drew their weapons. The smell that rolled out as they moved through the doorway had all three hunters recoiling and covering up their noses and mouths. 

“That so can’t be a good sign,” Dean muttered through a cough as he drew his Colt 1911 and headed forward through the hallway.

Bobby veered off to the left into a dark room, the kitchen, a fully stalked one, he realized as he turned the corner. He strained his ears, trying to pick up the smallest hint of something in the house, but the only things he could hear were the chirping cicadas beyond the checked flower walls of the house. He moved through to the next room, finding nothing that would explain the smell or why there were omens in the area.

The sound of a door hitting a wall drew his attention to the other side of the house; he weaved his way through the hall. As he walked into the room the boys were occupying, he came to an abrupt halt as both the sight and smell slammed into him.

“Bobby, what the hell happened?” Sam asked in an uncertain tone. 

The old hunter shook his head. “I don’t know.” He pulled his eyes away from the dried, desiccated corpses. He’d witnessed a lot of disturbing things in his time as a hunter, but rotting corpses were something he’d never get used to seeing, or worse-smelling. He supposed that was a good thing, meant he wasn’t yet burnt out like some hunters.

Bobby began to survey the room, hoping for something to tell them what had happened, when his gaze caught on the older Winchester. Dean’s shoulders were hunched slightly inwards, his hand splayed against his chest, and his expression looked caught somewhere between pensive and confused.

Bobby narrowed his eyes and took a step toward the younger hunter. “Dean?” he asked lightly.

Dean jerked his head back, his hand dropping to his side as he blinked away whatever it was that had been rolling through his head. “We should . . .” He licked his lips. “Uh, check for sulfur.” His voice bounced just a fraction, like he was unsure if he was reading from the right script.

“Dean, are you okay?” Sam moved closer to his brother, worry cutting deep lines across his forehead.

Dean gave them both a lopsided grin. “Yeah,” he started. “Guess I shouldn’t have had that bacon cheeseburger for breakfast this morning.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Dean, you didn’t have a cheeseburger for breakfast.” He tilted his head to the side. “Remember, we stopped at the diner just before Bobby called. You had some skillet hash thing.”

Bobby watched as one emotion chased another across Dean face, but before anyone could say anymore, he caught movement outside just over Dean’s shoulder.

Dean moved away from the window, pressing himself against the wall. He shifted the curtain to peek outside, then turned to him and Sam; he silently gestured for them both to go around the back of the house.

Bobby only hesitated for a moment before he headed toward the back of the house with Sam. Once at the back door they split, each going in opposite directions on the wraparound porch. The house wasn’t that big, but by the time Bobby reached the front he was mildly surprised to find Dean in what looked like a Mexican standoff with two other people. All parties seem relatively unscathed, for the moment, at least.

“Isaac? Tamara?” Bobby questioned as he got closer. It had been so long since he’d seen them that at first glance he almost didn’t recognize them. He came to a stop next to Dean, placing a hand on the younger hunter’s forearm. Though he seemed reluctant to do so, Dean lowered his shotgun and relaxed a bit.

“Bobby, what the hell are you doing here?” Tamara asked, a smile spreading across her face.

Bobby returned the smile, reaching out to shake Isaac’s hand. “I could ask the same.”

Isaac grasped Bobby’s hand and nodded in his wife’s direction. “Heard about some crop failure and cicada swarm around here. Thought we’d come check it out.”

Bobby nodded as Sam came around the corner, lowering his own shotgun at the sight in front of him. “Sam, Dean.” He gestured to the two boys in turn. “This is Isaac and Tamara. Ran a few hunts with them a good while back.”

Sam came to stand next to his brother; he held a hand out to Isaac, who seemed to hesitate for a moment before shaking it. “Nice to meet you,” Sam said, then turned his attention to Tamara and repeated the gesture.

Unlike his more polite brother, Dean merely rolled in lips against his teeth, giving the hunters a curt nod.

* * *

 

Sam leaned back against a side table, his eyes trailing the two other hunters as they moved around each other in a rhythm born of familiarity and spoke of long hours working close to one another. He and Dean shared a similar rhythm with each other. Being able to anticipate your partner’s next move or thoughts without them having to say anything was useful and in some cases life-saving. It was that very thing, however, that was now throwing Sam slightly off. His brother has never been the most trusting type, but he was more often than not friendly with people, at least until they gave him a reason to be otherwise. Nonetheless, the moment Sam had turned the corner on the porch earlier, he could see Dean’s dislike for the two hunters, specifically for Isaac.

Sam wasn’t sure what was going on, but his brother had a knack for reading people, and he trusted it—most of the time. If Dean was put off by the hunters, then Sam was sure there had to be a reason for it. So for the moment he would stay out of their way and wait on Dean to finish with his phone call with the coroner. Then they could decide on what to do next.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bobby folded his arms across his chest, leaning back on the side table next to Sam.

Sam jerked his eyes upward; he had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed the old hunter’s approach. “Huh?” was the most intelligent response he could think of.

“You look a million miles away. Wanna share what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek and thought back to the argument he had with Dean earlier in the day. His brother had been acting slightly off—not completely out of character, but there were little things. A stray look here, an odd word there, his full support on whether Sam should go back to school or not. It all left him feeling slightly off-centered. He wanted to share his worries with Bobby; the older hunter always knew what to do, but . . . Dean hadn’t actually done anything yet that really raised any red flags. What would he say to Bobby, _Dean is finally treating me more like an adult and equal instead of like a little brother; I think he might be possessed_? Sam rolled his eyes inwardly. He was sure that would sound even more absurd out loud than it did in his head, and it sounded pretty absurd in his head.

Sam chewed on his thumbnail. Maybe it was all a side effect from the coma Dean fell into just two weeks prior, though that was another thing that struck him as odd. His brother didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the how or why he spent two days in a coma. Dean had always been nonchalant about his own health and wellbeing, but if they didn’t know what had caused it, they couldn’t know it wouldn’t happen again. There was always the chance it could happen in the middle of a hunt, which could put people’s lives at risk. Dean didn’t take much seriously, but hunting and protecting people were some of the few things he didn’t play around with. The fact that he brushed off the coma and didn’t appear to care . . . his brother had to know more than he was letting on. Though trying to get his brother to share . . . he’d have better luck ganking a hellhound.

“Sam?” Bobby prodded softly.

Sam let his hand drop and folded both arms across his chest. He would wait for the moment, maybe see what he could pull out of Dean before taking his worries to Bobby. They had enough to worry about right now with all the demons on the loose—they didn’t need to add what might just be his overreacting to the pile.

Sam turned his attention to the older hunter, aware that the man was still waiting on an answer. “Just wondering what happened to that family.” Not a complete lie; he was still wondering about that. “They looked like they had been sucked dry, but what could have done that?”

Bobby scratched at his beard. “Your guess is as good as mine, kid.”

Sam glanced up just as Dean walked back into the room, snapping his phone shut. “So get this—” He gestured animatedly, catching Isaac and Tamara’s attention. “The whole family, cause of death? Dehydration and starvation. There’s no sign of restraint, no violence, no struggle. They just sat down and never got up.” Dean leaned back against the wall, tucking his hands in his jeans’ pockets.

Bobby shook his head. “But there was a fully stocked kitchen just yards away.”

“So what is this, a demon attack?” Sam uncrossed his arms, bracing his hands against the edge of the side table.

“If it is, it’s not like any I’ve ever seen.” Bobby looked between the four hunters in the room. “And I’ve seen plenty.”

Sam tapped his fingers against the table. “All right, what do we do now? There was—”

“ _We_ ,” Isaac interrupted, “don’t do anything.”

Sam’s head flinched back slightly. “What do you mean?”

Isaac rolled his shoulders back. “Look, you guys seem nice enough, but this ain’t _Scooby-Doo_ , and we don’t play well with others.”

Sam frowned. “We’d cover a lot more ground if we all worked together.”

“No offense”—Isaac shifted his attention around the room—“but we’re not teaming up with the damned fools that let the Devil’s Gate open in the first place.”

“Isaac.” Tamara shook her head at her husband. “Like you’ve never made a mistake.”

An insincere smile pulled at Isaac’s mouth. “Oh, yeah. Locked my keys in the car. Turned my laundry pink. Never brought on the end of the world, though.”

A snort of laughter from the opposite side of the room drew everyone’s attention to Dean, who had remained oddly quiet up until that point.

“You find something funny?” Isaac turned to face the other hunter.

Dean glanced upward as if thinking about his answer, then looked back to Isaac. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Dean—” Sam warned; he could already see this conversation heading downhill fast.

Isaac narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Dean. “There is an army of demons out there now. We don’t know where they are, when they’ll strike. There—”

“Actually, we do. Know where they are, I mean. Those seventeen cities with black clouds over them a few days ago?” Dean leaned in as if preparing to share some big secret. “I’d start somewhere around there.” He shrugged and leaned back up against the wall. “But that’s just me. As for an army,” Dean continued before Isaac could cut in, “riddle me this, Daphne. What do you think a group of mercenaries do when you kill their leader?”

“You think that makes up for letting out hundreds of demons? There aren’t enough hunters in the world to handle something like this.” Isaac curled his fingers into a tight fist.

“I don’t know what hunter’s world weekly news report you’ve been reading, but if it wasn’t for us the gate would still be open and that army you’re so scared of would have a leader,” Dean continued in the same calm voice. “Every hunter who wasn’t there to help keep the gate closed is just as much at fault. Don’t blame us just because you couldn’t find the hundred square mile omen in the middle of Wyoming. But you go ahead, sit on your high horse and pretend you’re better. Whatever helps you sleep at night, man.”

Sam knew he should step in before this conversation devolved into something more physical, which judging by Isaac’s tense posture and the vein bulging in his forehead he was sure they were only seconds away from it.

“You cocky son of a bitch.” Isaac deliberately stepped into Dean’s personal space, but the younger hunter seemed wholly un-phased.

“You don’t wanna help out here, that’s fine. If the demons are too much for you to handle, I hear the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog is stirring up trouble a few states over. If you ask nicely maybe they’ll let you throw the holy hand grenade.”

Sam winced at the comment as he pushed off the side table and began crossing the room just as Isaac grabbed the front of Dean’s shirt. He could hear Bobby close on his heels.

“You punk ass—” Isaac started, but before he could get much further Tamara pushed herself between the two men.

“That is quite enough testosterone for today.” She pushed Isaac back a few feet.

Dean held his hands up in front of him as if he was the innocent party in all this. Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Isaac, _now_.” Tamara pulled at his arm when he refused to back down. Reluctantly he shot one last glare at Dean before letting his wife lead him away.

Sam waited until he was sure they were alone before turning on his brother. “Dean, what the hell was that?”

“What?” And just like that the cold, calm expression that his brother had been wearing melted into a childlike innocence that would fool anyone who didn’t know better. “He started it.” 

 

It was still early evening, but already the area reeked of smoke, alcohol, and—if he wasn’t mistaken— different flavors of vomit. His lips curled at the edges; he normally wouldn’t consider even approaching such an establishment, much less go inside, but his contact was in there, and the message he received indicated that he had essential information.

He tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket; his eyes swept across the area for his target. It took only a moment to locate him, an older-looking man maybe pushing his late forties, short bush grey beard, dressed in faded, slightly torn jeans and an old dirty flannel button up shirt. He was sitting three stools from the center of the bar and appearing to be three sheets to the wind. He knew, though, that the man wasn’t even remotely drunk—it was just for appearance’s sake.

He negotiated his way through the crowd, being careful to not touch any of the other patrons. It was a new suit; he’d hate to have to burn it. Of course, just being in such a place, he might have to anyways.

“I don’t know how you can stand this . . . place,” he sneered, his voice a deep rumble.

The old man shrugged as he took a drink of his beer. “I dunno, it has its perks.” The man looked up to his better dressed companion. “Perhaps not as good as others.”

The younger man narrowed his eyes. “You said you had something important to report.”

Nodding, the other man reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and handed it off. His jaw clenched tightly as he took the paper and unfolded it. His eyes narrowed further as he read the paper, his eyebrows pushing together at the center of his forehead.

His eyes snapped down to his contact, studying him before asking, “Are you sure?”

“Positive. I checked it out personally.”

The younger man drew a hand across his chin. “Then it would seem like we have a problem.”

 

 


	8. In the Small Hours - Part II

_Dark rivers are flowing back into the past_

_and what of the future, what is to be_

_Do not take for granted, powers out there_

_don't step into the demon's lair_

_Time is an illusion, rising from time._

_You cannot touch me, you would not dare._

_I am the chill that's in the air._

 

Everything was quiet for the moment; a silent hush filled the old abandoned house as the night gave way to the day. Dean stood with one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans and the other wrapped loosely around an icy glass of water. A smile tugged at his lips as his gaze dropped to the body at his feet. Sam lay on his side, tucked securely into his sleeping bag.

"Saaaam, Sammy," Dean mumbled in a mock attempt to wake the sleeping giant. "Wakey, wakey." When he was met with only snores he shrugged. "Well, I tried." Dean held the glass over his brother and tipped its contents out.

Sam bolted upright, sputtering and flailing as he fruitlessly tried to protect himself from the freezing liquid. "Wha . . ." Sam's expression melted from confusion into pure annoyance as he located the source of the rude awakening. "Dean! What the hell?"

Dean bit his lip in an attempt to stifle his laughter and gave his little brother a shrug. "Hey, man, I tried to wake you. Called you like three times, but you were out." Sam shot him a glare that Dean was pretty sure if looks could kill . . . well, if looks could kill they probably wouldn't have made it past their teenage years—or to their teenage years.

Sam scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. "You're an ass," he grumbled, then pushed his wet blanket away with a sigh of annoyance.

Dean gave him a boyish grin before kneeling down next to his duffle. "Since you're up . . ."

Sam yawned, stretching his arms over his head. "What time is it?"

"Bit before six."

"Six like a.m.?" Sam looked over at him like he'd lost his mind.

"Yeah."

"What are you doing up at six?"

Dean frowned, pausing in his search through his duffle to glance at his brother. "I get up at six."

"Dean, you go to bed at six. I don't think I've ever seen you willingly up before ten, much less at six."

Dean glanced up at the ceiling; he couldn't deny the truth in that statement. Dean had never been a morning person and was usually last to sleep, last to rise. He preferred to wait until Sam made coffee magically appear before getting up. It was better for both of them, as he was less likely to murder his bright-eyed, bushy-tailed brother with the promise of coffee to distract him.

This morning, however, he'd woken up somewhere around a few hours ago when Bobby had gotten up and rolled out for the day to do some checking around town and hadn't been able to fall back to sleep. He gave up on all attempts to about an hour or so earlier.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Bobby called about ten minutes ago."

"Oh." Sam pulled himself the rest of the way out of his sleeping bag and began to rifle through his own duffle for a change of clothes. "He find anything interesting?"

"Yeah." Dean checked his weapons, then dropped them into his duffel along with other various items he felt he would need for the day. "Some chick at a department store decided to bash in another chick's face."

"Bobby say why?"

"Shoes."

Sam paused halfway through buttoning up his shirt. "Shoes?"

Dean shrugged. "Apparently she  _really_  wanted those shoes."

"Huh." Sam finished buttoning his shirt and began to pull on his socks and shoes. "Bobby thinks this might be related to that family from yesterday?"

"It's possible." Dean already knew the two were related, but he had decided, for now at least, to keep his time traveling a secret. There was really no advantage in telling them. At this point the only thing it would do was incite a million questions that he really did not want to deal with. Questions with very dark answers, ones that the Bobby and Sam of this time would never understand, couldn't understand, not without having experienced the events for themselves. Though, keeping it from them was easier said than done. Not only was he used to being honest with Sam—something that had taken many years to get to—but he could already tell Sam knew something was wrong, and it was all he could do to dodge Sam's questions. He'd managed to shut down Sam's attempt the night prior by faking exhaustion. He bit his lower lip; "faking" might be a strong word.

Dean dragged his thumb across his forehead with a sigh; it would be better this way. Dean zipped up his bag and stood up straight, hiding a grimace as a sharp pain shot across his chest.  _Must have slept wrong_. He shrugged to himself and hefted his duffle onto his shoulder.

Dean turned toward his brother as the younger man stood fully dressed and ready to go. "I'm going to drop you off at the department store so you can poke around, question the clerks there."

"Wait, drop me off?" Sam frowned deeply at his older brother. "You're not coming with me?"

"They're store clerks, Sammy, not clowns. You'll be fine on your own." Dean smirked as he walked outside toward the Impala. "If they get too unruly just remember: they have a price gun, you have a real gun."

Sam grabbed his own gear and followed him out. "Where are you going?"

"I've got some other things I wanna check out. Bobby will be heading there after he finishes up with the DA or whatever. He can give you a ride. I'll catch up with you guys a bit later." Dean pulled open the driver's door and slipped behind the wheel.

Sam followed suit, giving his brother a suspicious look as he shut the car door. "This  _thing_  you wanna check out has nothing to do with a coroner's tech by the name of Jenny, does it?"

Dean started the car and pulled out onto the road; his face fell into a mock look of hurt. "Sammy, I can't believe you'd think I'd be anything but professional while working a case."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Right, because you are the poster child for professional."

Dean smiled brightly, leaning over and slapping Sam's leg. "See, now you're getting it."

* * *

Dean dug his knuckles into his eyes in an attempt to drive out the pounding headache that had gathered there. After dropping Sam off at the store, he had done some minor looking into the case they were working on, making enough stops at just the right places so when he meet up with Sam and Bobby later he would have something solid to give them that could wrap the case up.

Once that was taken care of, he headed to University of Nebraska's Archives and Special Collections Library, hoping that he might be able to find some clue in their old manuscripts about the symbol that he'd drawn when he first woke up. He was positive Cas had planted it in his mind and that it was important. He knew the words around and in the symbol were Enochian, but beyond that he really had no starting point to work from, which in turn had led him to sitting in a stuffy library for the last seven hours with nothing to show for his trouble but a pounding headache.

Dean checked his watch; it was nearing midnight. The rent-a-cops would be making rounds soon, and he wasn't particularly keen on getting arrested tonight, at least not for something as tame as breaking into a library. He started gathering up the manuscripts and books that had lain open on the table when a symbol on the bottom of one of the manuscripts caught his eye. It was a five-pointed star inside a six-pointed star inside an eleven-pointed star surrounded by a circle. It was very much like the one he had drawn—the only difference was the symbols between the star points. Dean checked his watch once more; he couldn't stay any longer. Sam had called him not long ago about a location for their mystery demon, and he needed to be there in case they decided to make a move. He folded the manuscript in half, shoved it into his coat pocket, and made quick work of the rest of the books he had been looking through. Giving one last glance around to make sure there was no proof of his having been there, Dean headed for the back of the building, exiting the same way he had entered.

* * *

Dean slammed his hand against the front passenger window; a childish grin slid over his face as he watched both Sam and Bobby jump in surprise. He chuckled at the dirty look he received from both hunters as Sam rolled the window down. Dean bent forward, leaning his forearm on the top of the car's door.

"So you guys sitting out here in the car for a reason or you just scared there might be actual women in the bar?" Dean, of course knew the reason why they were sitting in the car, but he couldn't pass up the chance to tease his brother when opportunity struck.

"Hilarious." Sam gave him his patented bitch face before grabbing a photo off the dashboard of the car and thrusting it at Dean.

"That the shoe lady?" Dean asked as he inspected the photo.

"That's her." Bobby gestured to the picture. "Despite going crazy over some shoes, she seems clean. The guy with her, however . . ."

"His name is Walter Rosen," Sam picked up where Bobby trailed off. "He's from Oak Park, just west of Chicago. Went missing about a week ago."

Dean handed the picture back to the younger hunter. "So you think he might be possessed?"

"It's a good bet." Sam tossed the picture back onto the car's dashboard. "But what kind of demon walks up to someone, touches them, and causes them to go stark raving mad?"

He wasn't sure why, but suddenly the image of Crowley popped into his head. The King of Hell never had the same power as these demons, but he certainly managed to drive them stark raving mad plenty of times. Though, to be fair, he had been useful at least a few times. Dean hadn't been sorry when the demon finally met his end, but even he had to admit Crowley didn't deserve to die in the manner he did. No one did.

"Those demons that got out at the gate"—Dean turned his attention back as the older hunter started talking—"they're gonna be able to do all kinds of things we haven't seen."

Sam nodded, a tight frown pulling on his face. He turned back to his brother. "So did you find anything? I mean, anything other than Jenny's phone number."

Dean smirked. "Oh, ye of little faith. I'll have you know—"

"Boys." Bobby nodded toward the other side of the parking lot where the man from the picture was walking toward the bar.

Dean glanced over at the demon, then back into the car. "How do you want to do this?"

Bobby dragged a hand across his chin. "We don't know what this guy is capable of. We should tail him till we know for sure."

"Actually, I might have a something on that," Dean started.

"Guys, that might not be an option," Sam interrupted, gesturing to the car that just pulled into the parking lot.

Dean looked up to see Isaac and Tamara exiting the car and heading toward the bar. Dean didn't really care for Isaac, but he knew if they entered the bar the man would not only _not_  be leaving but would die rather horribly. Dean wrinkled his nose at the thought; death by DrainX was not the way to go.

Making a quick decision, Dean took a few steps away from the car and yelled across the parking lot. "Hey, Tia! Tamara!" He made sure to yell loud enough that he caught the demon's attention as well. "Man, I'm glad I caught you! We decided to finish the night back at the house instead of the bar!" It wasn't his best idea since it singled him out as well, but it would force the other two hunters to retreat.

The demon glanced back at them, but then as Dean hoped wrote them off as a minor annoyance and headed into the bar. Isaac and Tamara, on the other hand, glanced at each other before Isaac threw Dean a very dirty glare and headed back toward their car.

"Dean, what the hell—" Sam started, but Dean cut him off mid-sentence as he leaned down toward the car's open window.

"I'll meet you guys back at the house." He turned away and headed back to the Impala without giving either one of them a chance to respond. He wasn't sure if Isaac and Tamara would go back to the house; if they did then perhaps they could all work together. Not that he particularly wanted to work with Isaac, but five against seven were much better odds.

* * *

Sam fidgeted impatiently as Bobby pulled his car into the driveway of the house just behind Dean, who pulled in after Isaac and Tamara. He watched as Isaac bolted out of his car a moment before Dean stepped out of his. Sam shoved his own door open, not bothering to wait for Bobby to come to a complete stop. This wasn't going to end well.

Dean was fast. He had always been faster than Sam, when they were younger and as adults. His brother was smaller but more compact; what he lacked in reach he more than made up for in speed. But the speed at which Dean moved just then . . . he had a hard time following the blur of motion. By the time Sam registered that Isaac had clocked his brother, Dean had the man pinned face-down against the Impala's hood.

"Hey! The hell you two think you're doing?" Bobby yelled, just a step behind Sam.

Sam rushed forward, hoping to stop the fight from escalating further. He grabbed a fistful of Dean's jacket and dragged him away from the hunter, then placed himself between the two.

"Son of a bitch sucker punched me!" Dean growled, one hand pressed against his bleeding nose.

"You could've gotten us killed!" Isaac shoved himself off the car, but further advancement was halted by his wife, though she appear to be about as upset as her husband.

"I saved your lives, jackass." Dean's voice came out slightly muffled behind the hand. "Do you even know what you were walking in on?"

"Yeah, a demon that would be back in hell right now if it wasn't for you," Isaac bit out.

"All right, you two." Bobby started looking to each in turn. "This isn't—"

"You think so?" Dean interrupted the older hunter. "Let's say by some miracle that you did exorcize that demon. What were you planning on doing about the other six?"

Tamara turned from her husband to face Dean. "Six?"

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked the same time as Tamara.

"If you'd have done any proper research you would know there were seven demons in there. Not just the one." Dean pulled his hand away from his nose, trying to gauge whether it was still bleeding or not. "But I suppose that's what separates the Scooby-Doo gang from the professionals."

"You son of a—" Isaac moved forward only to be halted by both Tamara and Bobby.

"All right, you two." Bobby let his hand drop away from Isaac's arm. "Why don't we go inside, pretend for a few minutes we're all adults, and talk." He looked over to the younger hunter.

A tense silence filled the air before Isaac raised his hands. "Fine," he growled under his breath as he turned and headed for the house, Tamara on his heels.

"Can't believe I let him sucker punch me," Dean grumbled the moment the couple entered the house. He dabbed his fingers against his nose.

"Well, you do seem to have a way with people." Bobby's mouth quirked up in a half smile.

Dean stopped mid-action. "Hey, I saved their lives." Satisfied for the moment that his nose was no longer bleeding, Dean wiped his hands off on his jeans while muttering under his breath, "Should have let him drink the DrainX."

"What?" Sam gave Dean an odd look.

"Nothing." Dean gestured up toward the house. "Shall we?"

Sam and Bobby headed into the house as Dean grabbed his duffle bag from the Impala. He stumbled when a sharp pain lanced through his head and chest.

" _It's suicide, Dean!"_

" _So what? I'm dead already!"_

" _How you gonna kill 'em? Can't shoot 'em. You can't stab 'em. They're not just gonna wait in line to get exorcised!"_

Dean threw out a blind hand, gripping the side of the Impala as a flash of fire scorched through him.

" _They're gonna be hunting us. And they're not gonna quit easy."_

" _. . . take Tamara and head for the hills. I'll stay back, slow them down, buy you a little time."_

" _You're insane, Dean. Just forget it."_

" _There are six of them, guys. We're outmanned, we're outgunned. We'll be dead by dawn."_

" _There's no place to run that they won't find us."_

" _Look, if we're going down, we're going down together, all right?"_

Dean took a shuddering breath as the night faded back into view and the sharp stab of pain died down into a dull, manageable roar. "'m sure that's perfectly normal." He swallowed thickly and shoved himself off the car.

Dean pushed open the door to the house; he could hear the echo of voices from the kitchen, mostly arguing. As soon as he walked into the room, the arguing halted and all eyes turned to him. "Well, don't stop on my account," Dean teased.

"You said there were six other demons?" Tamara hooked her hands on the belt loops of her jeans, leaning her weight over her left hip.

"I did." Dean dropped his duffle onto a scrubbed wooden table that appeared to have seen better days about three centuries ago. He unzipped the bag, pulled out a manila folder, and opened it up, spreading out some papers with attached photographs onto the table as he talked. "While you guys were doing . . ." He paused, glancing at Isaac and Tamara. "Whatever it is you do, I was checking out a few different things." He pointed to a picture of the family from the day before and the woman Bobby and Sam had looked into. "You already know about these two. The family that sat down and chose to never get up again and the woman who killed another over some shoes."

Dean moved to point to another report. "I stopped by the hospital and found a guy that had recently been admitted when he nearly blew out his stomach because he started eating and wouldn't stop." Dean wrinkled his nose. "Despite running out of food. Then I headed over to the police station—"

"You went to the police station?" Sam interrupted.

Dean's forehead furrowed. "Uh, yeah."

Sam gave him an incredulous look. "Are you high?"

Dean turned his gaze upward, considering the question, but before he could come up with a decent comeback Bobby interrupted. "You can chew him out later." Bobby gave Sam a significant look. "One problem at a time." He gestured to the other reports. "What did you find at the station?"

Dean looked between Bobby and Sam, positive he'd just missed something rather important. He shoved the thought to the side for the moment; he'd hear about it later, of that he was sure. "Okay." He rubbed his forehead. "So at the station I found a recent report of a woman crushed to death in a treasure hoard of crap that would make Smaug jealous. It was odd, because apparently up until a few days ago she was the poster child for frugal living.

"Finally"—Dean pointed to the last document—"there was a report of two men who nearly beat each other to death after a minor fender-bender. Very minor fender-bender." Dean glanced up at each of the hunters.

"And from this you somehow came up with there being seven demons?" Isaac gestured to the papers with a shake of his head.

"You don't see the connection?" Dean knew Isaac wouldn't get it. If he hadn't already lived through this Dean doubted he would have made the connection between all the events, but he still took a moment to before putting the irritating hunter out of his misery. "Sloth, Envy, Gluttony, Greed, and Wrath." He pointed to each picture and report in turn.

"Five of the seven deadly sins." Sam looked up, his eyes widening.

"Yahtzee. The only ones missing are Lust and Pride, but I have no doubt they're here as well." Dean folded his arms over his chest.

Bobby rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "In 1589 Binsfeld ID'd the seven sins—not just as vices but as actual devils."

Isaac leaned forward, looking at the reports. "If these things are the seven deadly sins in the flesh, then all the more reason for us to take them out quickly."

"These demons haven't been topside in half a millennium." Bobby shook his head. "We're talking medieval, Dark Ages. We've never faced anything close to this. We need to step back and think our next move through before someone gets killed."

"I doubt trying to get to each of them separately would be an option," Sam mused.

"More likely the moment we get one of them we'll have the other six on our tail." Bobby removed his cap and rubbed his head.

Sam chewed on his lip for a moment. "What if . . . what if we use that?"

Four pair of eyes all shifted over to the youngest hunter.

"We grab one of them and use him as bait, set up a trap for the other six," Sam continued. "We can draw them to us. Might not be the best plan, but . . ."

"But it's probably the best one we're going to get," Bobby finished for him. He looked over to Isaac and Tamara. "You two going to help or are you still not playing well with others?"

"We'll help. But how do you plan on capturing a demon without them putting you under their power?" Isaac asked.

Dean shoved his hands into his pocket as he watched the four hunters. He looked down when his fingers brushed against cold metal in his pocket. He pulled the object out—a bullet. Earlier, while looking for something to pass the time as he waited for the library to close, he carved out a crude devil's trap into the base of a bullet. He'd forgotten all about it. A smirk lit Dean's face as he looked down at the object. "I think I have an idea."

 


	9. Fixxxer

_Just when all seems fine_

_And I'm pain free_

_You jab another pin_

_Jab another pin in me_

Dean tapped his pencil against the table as he let his mind wander from its current task back to Nebraska; the devil's trap bullet made it easy to capture one of the seven demons. Considering that particular trick was lost somewhere in the late fifties when the Men of Letters were wiped out and not used again until sometime in 2013, it's not surprising the demons weren't expecting it.

Once they had the demon they wasted no time sending the son of a bitch back to hell. The rest of the night played out similar to the original timeline: the remaining six demons attacked, made a mess, and were exorcized. The only exceptions were Tamara left with her husband still alive instead of burning his corpse, and Ruby never showed up; at least he hadn't seen her, and Sam made no mention of her.

Dean couldn't decide how he felt about that.

On the one hand, he was keen on keeping Ruby as far away from his little brother as he could. Of course, Sam wasn't an idiot—most of the time—and without the demon deal for her to hold over his head, his brother was more likely to kill Ruby than work with her. On the other hand, not knowing where she was or what she was up to made him itchy.

That, of course, wasn't the only thing scratching at the back of his mind. In the original timeline Isaac had given him a bloodied nose when the man had taken him by surprise outside of the house Sloth touched. Dean had neatly avoided that incident this time around only to get worse when Isaac sucker punched him after the whole incident at the bar. He couldn't help but remember something Sam had said—his Sam—about people trying to alter the past and the timeline working to right itself. Time wasn't a sentient thing that could make choices, at least he was pretty sure it wasn't, and it was such a minor detail that he was sure it was nothing, but it kept gnawing at him.

Dean glanced across the small motel table where his brother was deep into his research on their current monster of the week. Something called a naveath, as Sam had informed him a few days ago, a psychic shapeshifter that could take on the form of someone from a victim's past to distract or lure them in. The naveath then used its very large claws to rip the victim open and consume their soft, nougat-y center.

He was less than happy to be going after anything with psychic abilities—the last thing he needed was something rooting around in his head. Going after it, however, was proving more of a challenge than they had expected. They knew what it was and they knew how to kill it; what they couldn't seem to do was actually find the damn thing. According to the lore he and Sam had dug up, the thing hunted at night in wooded areas. There was only one decently wooded area in the little podunk town, and they had spent the last three nights scouring it with no luck.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, taking a deep breath. Maybe once they killed this son of a bitch they would head over to Bobby's and take a day or two to recharge. Since the deadly sins demons, he and Sam had been running hard for about three months with almost no downtime in between jobs. He knew his brother was starting to feel it: the younger hunter had passed out dead the moment they'd gotten back to the motel this morning.

Getting waylaid by Gordon Walker's henchmen, Kubrick something and random throwaway guy number twenty-five, a month or so back didn't really help matters. Thankfully this time around Sam hadn't been suffering from a terminal case of bad luck, courtesy of one rabbit's foot. After a bit of a scuffle, they let Kubrick and his partner go; he hadn't wanted to, but Sam insisted. It worked out well enough, because Dean gave Kubrick a message to pass on to Gordon.

Soon after that he and Sam made their way to Cicero, Indiana, where Dean found himself faced with the possibility of another reunion he was not prepared for. Seeing Ben and Lisa again, even from a distance, had hurt deeply. He wasn't sure if it had been providence or pure luck that he got sick and had to leave all the legwork to his brother, including interviewing witnesses. Dean had been all but useless for the whole thing, only able to help at the very end after Sam figured out what was going on and prepared to go after the changeling mother . . . thing.

The sickness—or whatever you wanted to call it—was something else to add to his long list of things that struck him as odd. It had hit rather suddenly, dug in deep. His temperature flared high and his head and chest pounded so hard he was convinced there would be physical cracks. Then, after a few days, it disappeared just as quickly. Dean was sure it was an odd bug, but he couldn't help recalling Azazal's words about burning out, but demons lie, and he was sure it was nothing.

On the up-side, he'd only had a few other violent flashbacks since Nebraska, and that was more than a month and a half ago. His hope was that the flashes were just the memories of his original timeline merging with the new ones and would stop happening as things settled down, as they were more than a little annoying. They hit like a freight train and left him rather disoriented. He'd been lucky so far that Sam hadn't been around to witness them.

"—might be the best place to start."

Dean's eyes shot up and back to his brother. "What?"

Sam let out a long-suffering sigh. "Are you even listening?"

Dean scoffed. "Of course I am."

"Really? Then what did I just say?"

"You asked me if I was listening." Dean gave his brother a cheeky grin, which was countered with a bitch face, and suddenly Dean wondered whom Sam had picked that expression up from. It wasn't from Dad. Their father had many expressions: angry, passive, deadly, pleased, the Dean-I-love-you-but-I'm-going-to-smack-you-into-next-Tuesday-if-you-don't-quit—he used to take particular pleasure in drawing that expression out of their father. But in all those expressions, there wasn't really a bitch face. At least not like the one his little brother had perfected so well over the years.

Samuel—their mother's father—now that man could do a bitch face. Maybe it was a genetic thing that skipped a generation. Can the bitch face be genetic? Or maybe it was the name: maybe all Samuels were born with the innate ability.

Dean shrugged to himself, returning his attention to his little brother as the man slid something toward him. It was a map of the town, marked up in various locations to show where the victims lived, where the bodies were found, and other useful information Sam felt important. Dean's eyes shifted to the forested area on the map and noticed a small area circled a few times. He gave Sam a questioning look.

"I think that might be where the naveath is." Sam leaned over the table, gesturing to the circled area.

Dean glanced back down at the map; it was as good a bet as any. "All right, sounds like a plan." He slid the map away and closed his own laptop. "We still have a few hours till dark and"—a wide, shit-eating grin split his face—"I remember seeing a pool hall on the way into town . . ."

* * *

"Why can't monsters ever hunt in broad daylight in the middle of a wide-open field or an abandoned parking lot where they're easy to find?" Dean groused as he shoved an offending tree branch out of his way.

They'd been trekking through the woods for a good part of the night; the air was heavy with rain that he was sure would break open at any moment, but Sam couldn't resist the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. "You're just upset because you lost a game of pool to a guy that was probably born before the game was even invented."

Dean threw a glare over his shoulder. "I didn't  _lose_. I let him win. Felt bad for the dude."

"Uh-huh." He couldn't help but take pleasure in his brother's misery. "And I'm sure you let him take you for two hundred and fifty dollars as well, right? Admit it, Dean, you got hustled . . . by the Crypt Keeper."

Dean fixed his brother with a hard glare. "You are aware I have a loaded pistol, right?"

Sam held his hands up in capitulation but couldn't help the grin that stretched across his face. His brother turned back toward the path, grumbling something Sam was sure should never be repeated in polite company, or any company.

"How much fur—" Dean paused as thunder cracked overhead and the sky let loose with thick drops of rain. He released a bone-weary sigh and rubbed his thumb over the bridge of his nose. "That's just . . . awesome."

"At least it's not as humid anymore."

Dean narrowed his eyes, clearly not finding the comment anywhere near helpful.

Sam cleared his throat and pointed ahead of them. "The clearing should be about two miles or so that way." He watched his older brother turn and head deeper into the woods. The forest had already been hot and muggy when they first came out, promising a miserable night. It had been their hope to find the shifter before the rain rolled in, but navigating through the thick underbrush of the small forest was taking longer than they had planned, and it appeared Lady Luck was not on their side. Sam brushed his dripping hair away from his eyes and followed after his brother.

They spent the next twenty minutes walking in silence, straining to hear anything unusual over the sound of the storm now rolling overhead. Sam was debating whether to suggest they call the night a bust and head back to the motel when Dean stopped abruptly and lifted a hand. Sam tilted his head, listening for whatever it was that snagged his brother's attention; it took a moment before he could just barely make out the soft sound over the thunder. It was a wet crunching and slurping sound; Sam pressed a hand against his stomach as he realized it was the sound of something thoroughly enjoying its meal.

Sam mimicked Dean's movement as he knelt low to the ground, carefully shifting the underbrush to get a better look at the clearing on the other side. The naveath was psychic, so it wasn't very likely they were going to be able to just sneak up on it. Unfortunately, the only way to kill it was to remove its head with a silver blade, which meant they had to get close to it, implying that one of them was going to have to distract it while the other went for the kill.

Sam was about to suggest such a plan when Dean beat him to the punch.

"You distract it—I'll go around," Dean whispered in a voice so low Sam could barely hear it despite being next to him.

Sam gave a mute nod; did his brother really just ask him to be bait? Not that he minded. He preferred it, actually, as Dean had a habit of getting thrown around a lot, mostly due to his ability to really irritate people or things and his inability to shut his mouth when he should. Sam was surprised, nonetheless, that his overprotective brother had made the suggestion. He shrugged internally and shoved the thought aside for later analyzing. There were more pressing matters at the moment, and his brother was already moving into position.

Sam pulled his machete from its sheath; the blade wasn't technically pure silver, as a pure silver knife made for a rather poor weapon. Instead the blade was stainless steel coated with pure silver, which more often than not was enough to get the job done. Sam took a deep breath before standing and pushing his way through the underbrush, into the clearing and in full view of the naveath.

He swallowed uncomfortable as the naveath locked its eyes on him. The creature was bald with disproportionately large ears and sharp, jagged teeth barely hidden behind paper-thin lips. Its clothes were ragged and torn, covered liberally in blood and . . . other things from its latest victim.

Sam shifted his stance so his feet were slightly apart and his body at an angle to the creature. He licked his lips, looking for something to say, when he realized with a startling clarity that he could only recall playing the part of bait once, maybe two times before. The job normally had gone to his father or Dean, usually Dean, as he was particularly good at it.

"Well, you ugly son of a bitch," Sam finally bit out, trying to channel his older brother's snark-the-enemy-into-submission tactic; he cringed internally as his voice gave the slightest shudder, and he blamed it on being soaked rather than any unease he may feel about going up against a psychic shapeshifter with very big claws. "Don't tell me you're full already."

The shifter gave him a bloody smile and made to stand when a loud snap of a tree branch echoed from behind it. The naveath whipped its head around to where Dean stood just five feet from it, blade raised. All three of them froze, waiting to see who would make the next move. The shifter's eyes snapped back and forth between the two brothers as if trying to decide who was the more imminent threat.

Having made its choice, the shifter stood slowly; the air around it rippled as its shape began to change. Distantly Sam realized that the creature didn't physically change its form as much as it altered the perception of those around it.

In a matter of seconds the repulsive creature was replaced by a young woman in her mid- to late twenties with short red hair and pale-ish skin. Her ragged clothes changed into a blue/purple flannel shirt overtop a grey T-shirt with a clown on it and words Sam couldn't quite make out from his angle, along with dark blue jeans and untied work boots, all of which were stained with blood.

The girl the naveath choose to mimic was one Sam had never seen before, he was sure of it, but that wasn't what surprised him. It was the way the blood drained from Dean's face, the way he took a halting step backwards away from the creature. The machete that had been posed to land a killing blow was now lying tangled and forgotten between his fingers. Dean's lips formed around a name Sam wasn't familiar with, at least not in relation to the person standing between them.

* * *

Dean watched in mute fascination as the naveath shifted and changed its form, clothes mending into a whole new outfit: familiar red hair appeared where there had been none, framing a familiar face covered in a sickeningly familiar pattern of blood.

A sudden heat slammed into him, ripping the breath from his lungs as he stumbled back.

" _I was raised on Tolkien, man. Where are my White Walkers and my volcano and magic ring to throw in the damn thing? Where's my quest?"_

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that the person standing in front of him wasn't her. That  _she_  was alive and well and blissfully unaware of the things that went bump in the night. But the face staring at him obliterated all sense and logic, leaving him scrambling against the drowning rush of memories and regrets. He was sure his head was going to burst from the onslaught of his own private hell opening up before him.

" _Tell me what happened. Why are you bleeding?"_

" _I, uh—I got shot. Did you know Dental floss works great as stitches? I only passed out twice, and I'm pretty sure my wound is now minty fresh."_

The naveath jerked its head to the side, causing a loud crack that filled the air. "Dean," the creature purred. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"C-Charlie." He felt a rush of dizziness slide through him, and before he could blink she was standing so close he could smell her fetid breath brush over his rain-soaked skin.

"It's your fault I'm dead."

" _Charlie, I don't know what the hell is going on, but you need to listen to me. Give whoever that is whatever they want. You understand? Charlie?!"_

" _I can't do that, Dean."_

"You and your well-meaning little brother. I died to save you, Dean. You, who destroys everything you touch." She tilted her head to the side. "Like poison." She ran a finger down the side of his face.

" _I don't care. What I care about is not getting my other arm broken . . . or dying."_

Dean wanted to flinch, move away, deny everything this Charlie lookalike was saying, but instead he found himself rooted, unable to do anything more than gasp for air that refused to pass his lips. He  _was_  poison—everything and everyone that got close to him got killed . . . or worse.

It was  _his_ fault she was dead, and it was  _his_  fault the world had been destroyed by the Hollow Men. What if he couldn't fix it? What if everything he did, had done, only made it worse? What if, despite everything, the word still burns?

She trailed a finger down to his chest and then splayed them flat against his breastbone; he could feel his heart thumping painfully under her hand. Before he had a chance to think, she dug sharp nails into his flesh and shoved him backwards with inhuman strength.

Stars burst in front of Dean's eyes as his head slammed against something hard and unyielding. In a blur of motion, the naveath was on top of him, digging its claws into his chest; a strangled cry of pain forced its way past his clenched jaw. The pressure in his skull increased, fighting for attention against the splitting pain carving its way through his torso. Black dots clouded his vision, pressing him toward oblivion; just as his hold on consciousness began to slip, the pressure disappeared and the claws were ripped from his chest.

Dean rolled onto his side, curling around the pain as he pressed his hand against the naveath's claw marks. Distantly he could hear movement, the sound of fighting mingled with echoes from his past still thrumming through his head. He knew he should get up, help his brother, but he couldn't seem to find energy for anything beyond pressing the memories down.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he realized that the fighting had stopped and the only noise left rumbling through the forest was the sound of his stuttered gasps and the thunderstorm still rolling overhead.

The following minutes passed in a blur of motion too fast for him to properly register and left him feeling more than a little nauseous. One moment he was looking at the ground pressed against his cheek and the next it wasn't; the grass and dirt had been replaced by the hazy sight of his brother's worried face. Dean blinked, realizing that his brother's lips were moving, but the ringing sound in his head seemed to be drowning it out.

Dean made a clumsy swipe at Sam's hands as the younger man cupped his head. "'m fi' S'm. 'roun' 'oke my 'all." A frown creased his mouth; he was pretty sure that sounded way more coherent in his head.

"What? Dean!"

Dean winced as his brother's voice pierced through the ringing in his pounding skull. He grabbed a fistful of Sam's shirt, using the younger man to haul himself off the cold, wet ground.

"Whoa, hey! Easy, man." He felt Sam scramble to help him, which was good considering he wasn't completely sure he would have been able to accomplish it on his own just then.

Dean pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, willing his dinner to stay where it belonged as his stomach twisted and rolled, unhappy with the change in orientation. He waited a beat, and then he let his hand drop, temporarily satisfied that no meals would be making an unwanted appearance.

"Dean?" Sam squeezed his shoulder gently. "You with me?"

"'m good," he muttered, the words still more slurred than he cared for.

Sam made a noise under his breath, something that sounded vaguely like disbelief. "Hardly, you're bleeding and I think you have a concussion."

"'eah ha'ver"

Sam frowned. "Red Heifer?"

Dean pulled his head back. "Wha—?"

"What?"

Dean squinted at his brother, sure that what he'd heard couldn't possibly be what his brother actually said.

Sam tilted his head to the side. "I thought you . . ." He shook his head and reached out to try and get a look at the back of Dean's head.

Dean jerked his head out of his brother's reach, immediately regretting the action as the world tilted on its axis and threatened to drop him off the side if he didn't hold on tight enough. He bit back a moan threatening to spill out and pressed a hand to the side of his head, hoping it would help keep the world still.

"Dean . . ." Sam sighed heavily. "We still need to burn the naveath's body."

Dean looked over Sam's shoulder to where the now decapitated creature lay, looking more like the demon love spawn of Gollum and Voldemort rather than . . . Dean swallowed thickly, willing to keep the memories lurking just below the surface that threatened to drown him at bay, at least for a little while longer. He tore his gaze away, turning back to his brother, who was looking at him like he was expecting an answer.

"Dean?" Sam cupped a hand against the side of his neck. "I'm gonna burn the body real quick, and then we can go back to the motel and fix you up, okay?"

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Fixed up? 'm fine."

"Dean . . . you're bleeding, remember?" He stated it like it was something Dean should have already known.

Dean looked down at himself, seeing the five claw marks on his chest that were bleeding sluggishly. "Huh." He dabbed a finger against his chest. That was probably something he should've remembered, but his head felt so packed with things at the moment, and the wounds didn't really hurt. At least he didn't think they did, though they'd probably be sore in the morning or whenever his brain and body decided to catch up with each other.

Sam frowned at him, worry pinching his face. "Just . . . don't move. Stay. I'll be right back."

Dean resisted the urge to reply with a woof, knowing it would do little to convince his brother he was fine. He was having enough trouble trying to convince himself. He blinked lethargically as he watched his brother set fire to the monster; despite the rain the creature burned quickly, and it didn't take long before Sam was at his side once more. At least it hadn't felt very long.

"You okay?" Sam kneeled down in front of him, one hand on his shoulder.

"Mm, you gotta stop asking me that." His chest had begun to ache and his head felt cracked, which it probably was, but it was nothing new. Just another day on the job.

Sam took his arm silently, helping him to his feet. Dean grabbed a fistful of Sam's sleeve as the world tilted drunkenly. After a moment he started to nod his head but stopped mid-motion, opting instead on a simple, "I'm good."

Sam pulled Dean's arm over his shoulders as they trudged back through the woods, heading toward the car. Dean chose not to say anything about it, as he wasn't sure he'd make it all the way back without the support, not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

"Dean," Sam broke the silence with a soft but curious tone. "Who was that girl? The one the shifter turned into?"

Dean pursed his lips into a thin line, once more pressing down the memories that threatened to spill out. He should've known his brother would ask—he wouldn't be Sam if he didn't. "She's . . ." He cleared his throat. "She's nobody." The words cut him deeply even as they stumbled past his lips. She wasn't nobody; she could never  _be_  nobody. She was like a little sister, one that he had failed to protect, one who had died senselessly trying to save someone who didn't deserve that kind of devotion.


	10. The Unnamed Feeling

_Name this for me, heat the cold air_

_Take the chill off of my life_

_And if I could I'd turn my eyes_

_To look inside to see what's comin_

_Then the unnamed feeling_

_It comes alive_

"What's the diagnosis?" Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans.

"We've tested everything we can think to test. He  _seems_  perfectly healthy." The doctor rubbed the back of his neck as an uncomfortable silence filled the small hospital room.

Dean folded his arms over his chest, his gaze resting on the man in question, silent in the hospital bed as if he were just sleeping. This was one event Dean remembered with absolute clarity despite his preference to do otherwise. At least this time around they wouldn't have to waste time trying to figure out what was wrong or how to fix it. He already knew about the kid drinking the Dream Root slushy, and waking Bobby up wouldn't be an issue; they just needed to get their hands on some Dream Root. The real issue would be what to do with the kid.

The last time they played this game, Sam had summoned the memory of the kid's dead father, which in turn led to his death. But that had been self-defense, and this kid—though he had already killed someone—was still completely human. No matter how much they had seen in the future, or how much crap they'd gone through, killing another human was something they never took lightly and tried to avoid at all costs. Especially near the end, as they weren't very many of them left.

"Mr. Snyderson, you're his emergency contact. Anything we should know? Any illnesses?" The doctor turned to him, forcing Dean out of his thoughts and back into the present.

"Uh, no. He never gets sick, not even a cold."

"Doctor, is there anything you can do?" Sam asked quietly.

The doctor frowned deeply, looking from Sam to Dean and back again. He shook his head and let out a deep sigh. "Look, I'm sorry, but we don't know what's causing it . . . so we don't know how to treat it. He just . . . went to sleep and didn't wake up." The doctor offered another apology then ducked his head and quickly left. Silence settled over the room as both brothers stood, each lost in their own thoughts.

"What do you think Bobby's doing in Pittsburgh?" Sam turned to his older brother, his expression openly worried.

"Not taking the world's lamest vacation, that's for sure." Dean frowned inwardly, trying to decide on the best approach for this. He normally he left the careful planning to Sam. Not that he couldn't do the planning stuff—he had done it plenty of times before—but his area of expertise lay more in the winging-it department than in planning. Sam would carefully lay out detailed plans on how to do something and when; then Dean would screw them up six ways to Sunday. It had become almost like a weird status quo between them, well . . . between him and the Sam of his time. This timeline's Sam wasn't quite there yet.

Dean glanced over to his brother, who was still looking to him for some kind of answer. He knew there was no way he could leave Bobby in his nightmare for any longer than he had to, but there had to be a way to mitigate suspicion from knowing too much. He knew Sam already thought something was wrong with him, though he doubted his brother's guess came anywhere near close to the truth. Regardless, he needed to be more careful with what he said and did.

"He was looking into the death of a doctor who'd been conducting a dream study. The doc went to sleep and never woke up."

After he saved Bobby and took care of the Dream Root kid.

Sam's eyebrows pulled together in the center of his forehead. "How do you know that?"

Dean shrugged. "Bobby and I were talking about it a few days ago."

"Oh." Sam looked between the sleeping hunter and his brother as he processed the information. "Did he say anything else?"

"The doc was experimenting with something called African Dream Root." Dean idly glanced over his shoulder to the door of the hospital room to make sure no one was listening. "Used by shaman and medicine men for centuries for dream walking."

Sam tilted his head to the side. "Dream walking? As in actually going into another person's dream and poking around in their head?"

Dean nodded.

"But"—Sam licked his lips—"I mean, there's gotta be more to it than that, right? You can't just kill people by wandering around in their dreams . . . can you?"

"You take enough of it. With enough practice, it appears you can become a regular Freddy Krueger. Turn bad dreams good, good dreams bad . . ."

"And kill people in their sleep." Sam shook his head, letting out a slow sigh. He then looked from Bobby to his older brother. "Bobby told you all this?"

"He, uh . . ." Dean rubbed the back of his neck. He was pretty sure this had to be one of his thinnest lies to date in either timeline. Normally it was Sam who couldn't lie to save his life; Dean had always been pretty good at coming up with shit on the spot. Although, he could also remember a more recent time when he and Sam had given up lying to each other, when they had finally stopped playing this game and were more open. Well . . . as open as they could be without shit turning into a Lifetime special. But that openness and honesty had been hard earned though tears, sacrifice, and blood—and not always their own. Dean cleared his throat. "He called, wanted some help with research." That sounded believable enough.

Sam's eyebrows shot upwards toward his hairline. "Bobby called you? For help? With research?"

"No, smart ass. He called looking for you, but you were too busy drooling all over your pillow."

"And you what? Volunteered to do it yourself?" Sam reached over as if to check for a fever. "You feeling okay?"

Dean ducked his head and knocked his brother's hand away. "Shut up. You should be glad I did, or we'd be spending the next few days trying to figure out what the hell was going on here."

Sam narrowed his eyes a fraction and pressed his lips into a thin line. Dean waited silently until his brother turned his attention back toward the bed. Dean released a silent breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He knew the lie was weak, but for the moment his brother seemed willing to accept it, or at least leave it be for now and focus on the problem at hand. Hopefully by the time they took care of this hunt and the Dream Root kid, Sam will have forgotten all about anything suspicious Dean might have said.

"All right." Sam rolled his lips against his teeth. "Let's say this doctor was testing this stuff on his patients. Maybe one of them got pissed and decided to give the doc a little dream visit?"

"That would be my guess."

"But what about Bobby?" Sam gestured toward the bed. "I mean, if the killer went after him, how come he's still alive?"

"Maybe he's the type that likes to toy with his victims first? Like he wants to feel some kind of control before going for the kill." Dean looked from Sam to Bobby. "The first thing we need to do, though, is wake Bobby up before the Dream Root person can do any real damage."

"I don't think an alarm clock is going to fix this."

Dean smiled. "No, but if we take some of the Dream Root ourselves . . ."

Sam scoffed. "You wanna go dream walking in Bobby's head?"

"If it wakes him up, yeah."

"We have no idea what's crawling around in there."

Dean pursed his lips together in a barely concealed wince; he did know what was crawling around in there. It wasn't something he was ever likely to forget. But however bad it had been for him to witness it, it was worse for Bobby to have to go through it again. "Dude, it's Bobby."

Sam curled his lips inwards, considering Dean's words before giving a short nod. "Yeah, all right. There's just one problem."

Dean raised his eyebrows, gesturing for Sam to continue.

"We have no Dream Root. So unless you know someone who happens to have some lying around . . ."

"You do."

"I do?" Sam asked slowly.

"Yeah, that witch doctor you took me to when I fell into that coma." Dean snapped his fingers, trying to recall the doctor's name. "Nathan . . . or something."

Sam pulled his head back. "You mean Daniel Haynes?"

"Yeah." Dean pointed at his brother. "That's the one. Give him a call. If he doesn't have some, I would bet he'd know where we can get some."

"Wait." Sam held his hands up, patting the air between them. "You knew he was a witch doctor?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, I'll admit I was a little out of it, but I wasn't that far gone. Being able to identify the supernatural  _is_  kind of part of the job description."

"No, no, I know, it's just . . ." Sam scratched the back of his head then let his hand drop to his side. "I just know you  _really_  hate witches, and you didn't say anything or, you know, try to kill him, and now you're suggesting we ask him for help . . ." Sam trailed off with a shrug.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Well, you trust him, right?" He waited a moment for Sam's nod. "Well, I trust you, so that's good enough for me." Dean held up a hand to cut Sam off before the younger hunter could respond. "Now, why don't you call him see if he can get us some Dream Root  _before_  this turns into a chick-flick moment."

* * *

Calling Daniel Haynes had turned out to be a smart choice. While the man had no Dream Root himself, he had a friend in the Pittsburg area that carried it, along with a few other items useful to hunters. Maybe once this was all over they would swing by there again, stock up on certain things. For the moment, though, the Dream Root was all they needed, which Dean sent his brother out to get, claiming he wanted to go through some of Bobby's research at the motel.

It was a lie, of course, one more to add to an ever-growing pile of kindling, but Dean wanted to make a call to someone, and it would be easier if he didn't have to spend twenty minutes trying to explain how he knew this person and from where. An explanation that would  _also_  be a lie, he told himself that he was going with the lesser of the two lies and it was better this way. He wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to convince.

Dean glanced down at the phone in his hand. He didn't  _really_  want to call her and felt dirty just thinking about it, but out of everyone, he knew not only would she have what he needed, but she would also ask the least amount of questions. There was also the fact that he had leverage he could use to illicit her help. Dean braced himself against the upcoming conversation and dialed the number he spent the last hour tracking down.

The phone rang twice before a honeyed voice answered with a simple,  _"Hello?"_

Dean took a deep breath, reminding himself that this was currently his best option. "Bela Talbot?"

There was a pause before she answered.  _"Perhaps. Depends on who's asking."_

"Dean Winchester. You might recall sending some goons to break into a storage unit a few months ago to steal a rabbit's foot?"

" _I don't suppose you're calling because you wanna give me that rabbit's foot."_

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I'm not. It was destroyed." He heard a sigh over the phone and could tell she was disappointed. He wasn't surprised; she probably had been planning on selling it for quite a bit of money.

" _Did you need something? I can't imagine you went through the trouble of finding my number just to tell me that."_

"I need a favor."

Bela laughed.  _"Oh, sweetie, that's cute, but I don't do favors. Money, however—"_

"Won't keep you from going to Hell," Dean interrupted. Through the silence he could almost hear the wheels spinning in her head, trying to figure out what he knew and how to play it to her advantage. Bela might be an amoral thief, but she was far from stupid. "You got what, less than a year left, right?" he continued as the silence stretched out.

" _I'm listening."_

Dean let out a breath; with less than a year left, he knew she would be pushing desperate, not that he could blame her—Hell wasn't exactly a place that filled you with warm, tingling thoughts. Well . . . not the type of warm tingling anyone wanted to be feeling. He hadn't been sure, though, whether she would try to play dumb or not. He remembered enough about her that he was sure he'd be able to convince her to help, but he wanted to keep as much information as he could to himself. The less she knew that he knew, the less she would question.

"There's a guy—"

" _Fresh out of love potions."_

"—that's using Dream Root to kill people," Dean pressed on through gritted teeth, ignoring her comment. "I need a way to take him out permanently so he can't hurt any more people."

" _Have you tried just killing him? I hear that's awfully permanent."_

Dean bit back a snort, knowing death wasn't quite as permanent as most people believed. He brushed the thought aside. "The guy's human. I would rather not kill him if I don't have to."

Bela let out what sounded like a small snort of laughter.  _"You hunters and your morals, trying to save a world that can't be saved. I just can't understand why you all try so hard."_

"Yeah, well, don't hurt yourself trying. Can you help or not?" Dean cringed; he was going to need a serious shower after this was done.

" _I might know of something that could help. But let's talk terms, shall we? What exactly are you offering in return?"_

Dean pressed his lips together in a tight line; getting people out of a crossroads deal was nearly impossible under the best of circumstances. Offhand, he could only remember doing it once before, and it had been a small fry contract with a small-time demon. Bela had made her deal with Lilith herself, or at least it was Lilith who held the contract for it. At the moment he really had no way of getting her out of the deal, though he did know a few tricks to keep the hellhounds at bay. "I can give you a hex bag that will hide you from demons, hellhounds, and any other supernatural beings with the exception of Lucifer himself."

" _Really, and how did you procure such an item?"_

"Sorry, sweetheart, I never kiss and tell, least not on the first date." He didn't actually have the hex bag, but making it wouldn't be an issue: he had learned how some time ago from Sam, who learned it from Ruby. He was pretty sure they had everything they needed in the car, though; now that he thought about it, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to make a few extra, just in case.

There was another long, silent pause.  _"Where are you?"_

* * *

Sam knew Dean was a master at deceit, a necessary skill in their line of work that his brother made into an art form. But he knew his brother. He'd spent a lifetime studying him, his mannerisms, his reactions, the little things that gave him away. The clench and release in his brother's jaw—almost too quick to catch—when Sam shoved the motel room's door open told him he'd caught Dean off-guard, an impressive feat of its own. And when Dean tossed his phone onto the table like it had been causing him physical pain, Sam knew something was wrong.

He waited to see if his brother would offer up any hint or clue as to what was bothering him, but instead the mask he was rapidly becoming familiar with slid across Dean's face, hiding all evidence of anything being wrong. Sam suppressed a sigh and placed the jar of Dream Root on the table. "I talked to Daniel. He said we need some of Bobby's DNA. Easiest thing would be hair. He also mentioned that any injuries we receive while in Bobby's head may transfer into reality, so we need to be careful. Especially if whoever attacked Bobby is there when we are."

"Not us. You."

Sam gave Dean a blank expression. "What do you mean, 'not us'?"

"I mean"—Dean walked past his brother, rubbing the back of his neck—"that I'm not going into Bobby's dream with you. You're going to have to pull him out on your own."

Sam turned, following his brother's movements; he could tell that Dean wasn't particularly happy with the idea, which only served to further his confusion on why the sudden change of plan, confusion he gave voice to.

Dean scrunched his face together like he was trying to choose his words carefully, another habit of Dean's that Sam had become increasingly familiar with over the last few months. It was an odd thing to see, as it was rare for his brother to really think before he spoke, much less to do it enough for the expression to become familiar.

"I was looking through some of Bobby's notes," Dean began after a long pause, "and I think I might know who attacked him."

"You do?"

Dean nodded, picking up a few papers from off the bed, and held them out to Sam. "This kid"—Dean pointed to a picture on the top—"Jeremy Fost, he took a hit from his old man when he was young, and it caused some sort of brain damage that made it impossible for him to dream."

Sam looked over the information, reading it carefully. "Charcot-Wilbrand syndrome." He looked further down the page. "Also says he has a hundred and sixty IQ." Sam glanced up through his eyelashes to his brother. "Dean, this doesn't exactly scream dream murderer."

Dean shrugged. "Maybe, but it's a place to start, and there really isn't much information about any other participants in the study."

Sam turned and dropped the papers onto the table behind him, then looked back to his brother. "That still doesn't explain why I'm going into Bobby's head alone and what you're doing while I am."

Dean shifted his weight restlessly from one foot to another. "If this is the guy, then he has already killed before, and at the moment Bobby's on borrowed time. We can't exactly leave him as is while we hunt down leads, but if we both go into Bobby's head and the person who attacked Bobby sees us, it would be too easy for him to go to ground before we even get a chance to approach him."

"So you wanna go after him while I pull Bobby out. Not give him a chance to run?"

"Exactly."

Sam nodded. He didn't care for the plan, but it did make sense. If the guy that attacked Bobby ran before they had a chance to stop him, then it would only be too easy for him to attack Bobby again, and it was unlikely he would waste time toying with him a second time. Sam gave pause as another thought occurred to him. "Dean, if he's human, you know we can't kill him, right?"

His brother rolled his eyes. "I promise I'm not gonna kill the kid."

"Then how do you plan on stopping him?"

Dean shrugged. "Wing it?"

"Wing it? This guy can and has killed people in their dreams, and your plan is to  _wing it_?" Sam shifted uneasily. Under most circumstances, Dean's "winging it" was pretty par for the course. In fact, they probably winged more then they planned, and it amazed him when they came out of situations alive, much less unscathed. But it was quickly becoming apparent to Sam that they weren't under normal circumstances and that  _Dean_  wasn't normal.

Over the last few months, Sam had started noticing things, actions and habits that just didn't seem to make sense. At first he wrote it off as Dean being put off-balance by the coma in Florida, the events at Cold Oak, the Devil's Gate. It had all happened so fast that anyone would be hard-pressed  _not_  to feel unbalanced by it all. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Dean hadn't been knocked off his game; in fact, it seemed like just the opposite happened.

Dean radiated an air of confidence, and, when he wanted to, cocky appeared as natural to Dean as breathing. It had taken him a while, but Sam had come to learn that that was one of many masks his brother tended to wear, that if you wanted to know the truth, you had to look to Dean's eyes. There his brother hid a thousand emotions in the dark green depths, and only those who knew to look ever got a glimmer of what was really going on.

Most people didn't, though, and Dean was a master at directing attention to where he wanted it. He was the only man Sam knew who could talk for hours on end and never actually say anything. And since the events of late April, his brother seemed to be talking more and saying less. He also acted less cocky and more confidant, more assured of himself and the people around him, and while Sam could still see bits of vulnerability in Dean, it was more hidden, overlapped by other things Sam wasn't used to seeing in his brother. Things he couldn't quite put a name to, and it left Sam feeling unsteady, like he was standing on the edge of this great big secret that he could only catch the smallest glimpses of. It worried him. He wasn't sure when things had shifted, if it was the coma, the events of Cold Oak, or maybe something at the Devil's Gate.

Sam froze as the thought brushed across his mind: the Devil's Gate. A lot of demons,  _things,_  escaped that night. Bobby had said creatures they'd never encountered before could have spilled out of Hell. What if one of those things had somehow gotten to Dean,  _in_  Dean? Then there was also the fact that his brother had been alone with the Yellowed-Eyed Demon for a long time. Was it possible that  _he_  could have done something to Dean? But if something did happen to Dean that night . . .

Sam shifted again, moving his attention back to the man in front of him; he frowned as he realized that Dean had been talking to him. He cleared his throat, hoping his lack of attention would go unnoticed. "Dean." He worried his bottom lip before continuing. "Look, I don't think we should split up. Maybe it would be better if—"

"Sam," his brother interrupted, patting the air between them. "It'll be okay. Take the Dream Root, find Bobby, convince him that he's in a dream. That should be enough to let him take control and wake up." Dean moved over to the motel room's door and went to pull it open; he twisted slightly, looking back at Sam. "Avoid injury, death, and anything not Bobby. You'll be fine. I'll go talk to this Jeremy kid to see if he's our guy; then I'll meet you back at Bobby's hospital room."

Sam moved forward. He wasn't sure what his plan was: protest, physically stop Dean, but it didn't matter, because before he got the chance his brother was already out the door. He could go after him, but what would he say?  _Hey, Dean, I think you might be possessed by something or the Yellow-Eyed Demon did something to you and therefore don't think you should go anywhere alone._  Yeah, that would go over real well.

Sam blew out a deep breath. Dean or whatever was riding along with him hadn't actually done anything to harm him or anyone else, so for the moment he would just have to trust him. Maybe Sam was just overthinking things and Dean was fine.

Once they got Bobby back, Sam would talk to the old hunter. He would know what to do.

* * *

Dean leaned forward; his arms braced against the Impala with his fingers interlaced while his thumbs chased each other in lazy circles. He threw another glance around the parking lot of the Gas-N-Sip he was currently occupying. Well, if it could really be called a parking lot. There really was only enough space for two cars, three if they were those tiny-ass bitch cars. He still didn't understand how they had become so popular . . . were so popular . . . will be? He couldn't recall what year the tiny, annoying little smart cars became a thing. Dean shrugged, not actually caring enough to follow the line of thought any further.

Another glance down at his watch for the tenth time in the last few minutes had a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He was starting to wonder if Bela would show at all when the squealing sound of tires cut through and announced her arrival.

Pushing off his own car, Dean walked around to the front as Bela pulled into the only other parking spot and stepped out, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair.

She paused for a brief moment, her eyes trailing from his face, over his body, then back up again. "Well, not exactly what I was expecting." A lazy smile played across her lips, and if Dean didn't know any better he'd think she was eyeing him like one would a particularly juicy-looking piece of meat. Only, he did know better, and he knew that's exactly what she was doing.

Dean cleared his throat. "It took you long enough to get here. You stop to help some little old lady out of her retirement money?"

Bela cocked her head to the side, her eyebrows shifting up at the comment. "I stopped to ask some friends about you."

Dean scoffed. "I find that hard to believe."

"That I would look into you before meeting?"

"No, that you have friends."

"Cute." She glanced around the gas station for a moment then let her eyes slide back to the hunter. "They were spirits, if you must know. And they were  _very_  chatty."

Dean schooled his expression, replacing the worried curiosity with a cocky grin and a noncommittal grunt lined with disinterest. "And what is the current gossip going around the supernatural bathroom stalls?" He wasn't really sure what any spirits could possibly know, but he did know that he didn't like Bela, he didn't like spirits, and he really didn't like the two being chatty with him as the topic of choice, left him feeling ill at ease and in need of a shower.

"Something about a massive supernatural disturbance somewhere near Florida and Mississippi. One with you at its epicenter."

Dean folded his arms and leaned back against the hood of his car. "That's it? A supernatural disturbance? Sweetheart, I don't know if you noticed, but disturbing the supernatural is my job, a job I'm very good at."

"Perhaps." She folded her hands behind her back, casting her glance away. "But a few of the spirits seemed convinced that the disturbance was temporal"—her gaze shifted back to him—"in nature."

"Temporal?" Dean chuckled and shook his head. "You realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?"

Bela gave him a small shrug. "Perhaps."

Dean rolled his eyes. "If you're asking if I have a DeLorean parked out back just waiting for enough plutonium to take me back home, then I'm sorry to say the answer is no."

Bela searched his expression; he wasn't sure what precisely she was looking for but knew she didn't find it when a flash of annoyance crossed her face. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear; she didn't make him nervous, not that he was stupid enough to underestimate her, but in the grand scheme of things she was the least of his worries. The foremost on his mind now was that if minor supernatural beings like ghosts or spirits had been able to feel a supernatural disturbance and know it was temporal in nature, what had the stronger supernatural beings like demons and angels felt? More importantly, what did they know?

Dean shook his head. There would be time to worry over it later; right now there were more pressing issues. He cleared his throat once more and pushed off the Impala. "So we just going to sit here staring each other down all day, or we going to get down to business?"

Bela crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side, the side of her mouth quirked upwards into a smirk. "All right. You show me yours and I'll show you mine." Her tone was more than a little suggestive.

A memory flashed through Dean's mind— _"You know, when this is over, we should really have angry sex."—_ and he couldn't help the matching upward twitch of his lips. He turned his mind away from the memory and his eyes from the thief it was attached to as he reached into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a small dark blue pouch, tied near the top with some twine string.

Bela's eyes bounced from the object in Dean's hand up to his face and back down again. "That's it?"

Dean nodded. "This will keep you hidden from every evil demonic son of a bitch short of Lucifer himself."

"How do I know it works?"

Dean looked down at the bag then back to Bela. "Well, do you sense anything?" Her only response was a rather unamused glare and shift of her weight from one foot to another. Dean shrugged. "Unless you have a demon hidden in your car"—not that he would be terribly surprised if she did—"then you're gonna have to take it on a little faith."

"Faith?" Bela's eyebrows shot upwards like he had just asked her to do the unthinkable. "I don't do faith."

"Well, you could always ask one of those spirits you're so friendly with." He paused for a moment. "If you don't want it, though, that's fine by me. After all, I'm not the one heading to Hell in a few months."

"Speaking of which, how is it you came by that information?"

"I found out while causing supernatural and temporal disturbances in the force," Dean said nonchalantly. "Look, we both know that if you had something better to keep hellhounds from dragging your ass to Hell, then you wouldn't be here."

Dean watched the muscles along her jawline jump as she debated her choice—he knew she didn't trust him. That was fair enough. To her, this was the first time they were meeting, and even in the previous timeline they never trusted each other. He didn't expect that to change in the least bit; he was more than fine with their mutual distrust.

Bela released a huff of air and turned toward her car, leaning in to fish something out from a box on the passenger side. She then tossed a small item to him as she stood back up.

Dean caught the object easily, taking a moment to inspect it. It was a glass vial about two inches in length and triangular is shape. The tip of the triangle had a silver edging on it that ran up the corners to the opposite end. The top of the vial was mostly flat, minus a removable silver cap. Dean glanced up to Bela, lifting his eyebrows and waiting for an explanation.

"It's an old Sumerian talisman. Put something of whoever you're looking to incapacitate into the vial, say a spell, and the person will be locked in their dreams until the vial is opened or broken."

"That's it?" Dean had a hard time believing anything could be that simple.

Bela held up a folded piece of paper. "I believe you have to use some of your own blood in the spell, but other than that, it's all very simple. Even you would have a hard time screwing it up."

Dean turned the object over in his hands, briefly wondering what happened to a person when you trapped them in dreams they couldn't have. Would it really be better than killing the kid? Of course, there was always the possibility of letting the kid back out. Dean nodded to himself, satisfied with that idea. He held the mojo bag out to Bela. She handed him the paper with the spell and instructions as she took the cloth pouch. She inspected the item then pushed it into her front pocket.

"We should really do this again sometime." She pulled her car door open and slid into the seat.

Dean stepped away from the car, her tires kicking back a large amount of gravel as she ripped out of the tiny parking lot.

* * *

Dean stood at the foot of Bobby's hospital bed, watching his little brother and surrogate father talk about the Dream Root and nightmares . . . or something close to that—he wasn't really paying much attention to the conversation. He was just glad that he'd been able to stop Jeremy and that Bobby would be okay. Dean fingered the talisman that lay hidden in his pocket; he would need to find a safe place to store it, somewhere that wasn't at risk of being stolen or broken.

After Bela had peeled away, Dean had made his way to Jeremy's apartment. He expected some kind of fight from the kid, but the whole thing had been surprising and almost disappointingly uneventful.

The kid had been sleeping on the couch when he arrived, and an empty, foul-smelling cup lay next to him on a coffee table. Dean hazarded a guess that the cup had contained Dream Root and that Jeremy was doing some dream walking. Whether it was in Bobby's head or someone else entirely, he didn't particularly care. The spell and ingredients were simple: he had everything in the Impala with the exception of the blood of the target and the blood of the spell caster, both of which were easily obtained.

Surprisingly Jeremy had remained asleep, only waking up near the end of the spell: he'd looked at Dean with an expression of complete and utter disbelief before his eyes rolled back and he was out again. After that Dean cleaned the house of his presence, called an ambulance, and left. The paramedics would find the kid, and more than likely the doctors would think he'd fallen into some coma, much like Bobby and the sleep study doctor.

_Speaking of doctors_  . . . Dean glanced toward the hallway. Someone was supposed to be coming by to give Bobby the green light. Dean wished they would hurry the hell up. Hospitals always made him antsy: they smelled too clean, too sterile, too much like sickness, and there was a silence that lingered in the air as patients, family members, and friends sat by holding their breaths, knowing the reaper was just down the hall.

Dean fidgeted; his gaze made a circuit between the door, Bobby, and Sam. After a couple of rounds, he cleared his throat, catching their attention. "I'm gonna go find the doc." He turned toward the door, not bothering to wait for a reply from either hunter.

* * *

Sam watched as his brother hastily made his way out the room in search of Bobby's doctor. He wasn't surprised about that—he knew Dean had a deep dislike for hospitals for many different reasons, not the least of which being the events that led to their father's death. It was a very normal "Dean" reaction which only served to further Sam's confusion about what was going on with his brother. One moment he seemed perfectly normal, like the older brother he had always known and grown up with; then, like a switch being flipped, Dean seemed . . . different in a way Sam couldn't quite decide on. The whole thing was giving him whiplash.

"Something on your mind?"

He jerked his head toward the bed to where Bobby sat up against a mountain of pillows. "No, uh, yeah. Mmm, maybe."

"You wanna share with the class, or should I start guessing?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck, cast a glance back at the door, and then sat down in a chair next to the bed. He chewed on his lower lip as he attempted to decide how to give voice to his worry without sounding like he was going crazy or overthinking things. "Bobby, do . . . do you know of or have you heard of a younger girl, maybe late twenties, named Charlie? She would have short red hair, maybe only five foot . . . six?" That seemed like as good of a place as any to start.

Bobby's brows scrunched tightly together, pondering over the question. "Not that I can recall. Why?"

Sam fidgeted in his seat, his gaze bouncing once more to the door then back down to his lap. "We . . . Dean and I, we were hunting a naveath and it, uh . . ." He cleared his throat, trying to decide exactly how to explain what happened. "When we found it, I guess latched onto Dean's thoughts or memories, and it changed into this girl, red-head, late twenties. And I know Dean has met a lot of women, but . . ."

"But?"

Sam licked his lips. "When he saw her, Dean froze. Like completely." He lifted his eyes up to the older hunter. "Bobby, I have  _never_  seen Dean freeze like that, much less in the middle of a hunt. He could have been killed. He almost was."

"That doesn't sound much like your brother."

"No . . ." Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Though that wasn't the only . . . odd thing."

"What do you mean?" Bobby shifted himself higher up in the bed, listening intently.

"After the naveath took the girl's form, uh, Charlie's, she said that  _both_  Dean and _I_  were responsible for her death. She called me his well-meaning little brother." He shifted his gaze up toward the hunter once more. "But, Bobby, I swear I've never seen that girl before. Ever. And I think I would remember if I had gotten someone killed."

"Did you try asking Dean who she was?"

"Yeah." Sam let out a humorless snort of air. "Yeah, I tried to ask him later when we got back to the motel, but . . ." He paused, resting his clasped hands against his mouth. "It was . . . he got really—I don't know, upset? Angry? A bit of both? He shoved me against the wall and told me to drop it."

"Can't say I'm too surprised. Your brother's never been the caring and sharing type."

"No, but . . . the only time I'd ever seen him that angry, we we're discussing Mom or Dad . . . even then . . . I mean, this was different. Dean was different. He seemed . . . colder." Sam chewed on his bottom lip, trying not to think about the look he'd seen in his brother's eyes. It had been so intense and full of pain that it kind of scared him. In all his years he'd never seen anything quite like that on his brother's face, and it was something he never wanted to see again.

"Well, your brother isn't really known for his warm and fuzzy side," Bobby tried again.

"No, he's not, but . . ." Sam cast his eyes downward. "Dean . . . he hasn't . . . he's been acting strange lately."

Bobby's eyebrows lifted into his fading hairline, though the old hunter looked less surprised than Sam would have expected. "Define strange."

Sam open and closed his mouth a few times in an attempt to find the right way to phrase what he wanted to say. "It's just . . . the little things, you know? Like how he's willing to let and even support me going back to school if I want to. Or he suddenly seems to trust me more, respect my opinions, and actually listens more than he ever has before."

"So your brother is finally treating you like an adult and you're worried something might be wrong with him?"

"No, that's not . . ." Sam shook his head, pushing out of his seat; he paced the short distance to the foot of the bed then turned around. "Bobby, I've been following him around my entire life. Looking up to him since I was four, studying him, trying to be just like him. I know him better than anyone else in the world, and this is not him, at least not all him. Something is wrong."

"All right." Bobby held his hands up. "Let's say something is wrong with your brother. Then the question is what exactly is it? Are we talking supernatural or something else?"

Sam brushed his fingers roughly through his hair. "I don't know, Bobby." He let his hand drop to his side. "You talked to him a few days ago. Did he say anything to you? Anything that might give a hint or suggestion about . . . anything?"

Bobby's forehead creased deeply. "Talked to . . . Dean?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "He said you called a few days ago, asking for some help with this case."

Bobby shook his head a fraction. "Sam, before today I hadn't talked to your brother in damn near a month."

"That's . . . that's not possible." Sam strode closer to the bed. "Bobby, you had to have talked to him."

"Sam, I promise you, I didn't. I didn't talk to  _anyone_  about this case. Didn't think it was gonna turn into much."

"No, no, no, that's not right." Sam paced down to the foot of the bed then spun on his heel. "Bobby. Dean  _knew_  about this case. He  _knew_  you were looking into the death of a doctor who had been doing sleep studies. He  _knew_  about the Dream Root and what it does, and he  _knew_ how to pull you out of the dream. All of it. If you didn't tell him . . ."

Sam had hoped he was wrong about all this, that he was just overreacting despite his gut screaming that something was wrong, but the evidence was mounting against him, and there was too much to ignore. Sam started to comment on the fact to Bobby when the brother in question walked back through the door.

"Good news," Dean said with a wide grin. "Doctor says you are free to go." He then paused, narrowed his eyes as his gaze slid between Sam and Bobby. "I miss something? Couples yoga? Foot massages? Some other estrogen-filled moment?"

Sam coughed, clearing his throat, but before he could say anything Bobby spoke up. "Ya done?"

Dean lifted his hands in surrender, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"Your brother and I were talking." Bobby glanced at Sam then back to Dean. "About you boys coming back to my house. Help me out with a few things."

It only took Sam a short moment to realize what Bobby was doing: if they wanted to figure out what was wrong with—what happened to—his brother, then the best place to do it would be Bobby's house. It was familiar ground, set up to ward off or capture the supernatural, plenty of books they could dig through for helpful information, and most importantly they could do it all without raising Dean's suspicions. All they had to do was stick some tools in his brother's hands, point him in the direction of the Impala, and he'd be blissfully distracted for hours.

Dean's eyes flicked over Sam, then gave Bobby a nod. "Sure, was planning on swinging by soon anyways. I think the Impala could use a tune-up."

Sam almost laughed at his brother's predictability before he mentally reminded himself the real reason they were going.

"You two going to be okay driving back there by yourselves?" This time Bobby gave him a significant look, and once more Sam understood what Bobby was really saying, or in this case asking.  _Are you going to be okay riding alone with him?_

Dean's forehead wrinkled then smoothed out; he started to say something, but Sam cut him off. "Yeah Bobby, we'll be fine, we'll be careful."  _I'll be okay._

Bobby nodded once then huffed out a breath. "You two waiting on some kind of red carpet invitation? Get going—I ain't changing out of this damn hospital gown in front of you."


	11. Bad Seed - Part I

_Swing the noose again_

_Pierce the apple skin_

_You bit more than you need_

_Now you're choking_

_On a bad seed_

A small groan rolled past Sam's lips as he leaned back against the Impala, his hand pressed against his stomach. His lunch, wrapped securely in grease, oil, and some other substance Sam couldn't quite identify but was positive wasn't safe for human consumption, didn't seem to be agreeing with him. It had sounded good in theory, healthy even . . . reality, however, provided a poor substitute for what he'd pictured. Sam wrinkled his nose at the memory of the thing that tried to pass itself off as a sandwich as his stomach gave another displeased rumble.

Dean's food, a double bacon cheeseburger and fries, had looked as good as it had sounded and had the audacity to smell even better. Dean had taken his time eating slowly and enjoying his meal; Sam was convinced he did it just to irritate him, which he succeeded in doing.

Sam's frown tightened as his stomach flip-flopped. Thankfully they were only a few hours out from Bobby's house. Sam had been in favor of just driving through, head straight there for obvious reasons. Dean, however, insisted on stopping, specifically at this diner. He'd mumbled something about pickle chips and death Sam didn't quite catch. Since Dean had been driving, there really wasn't much of a choice on whether they stopped or not, and it was such a normal "Dean" thing to do that Sam wouldn't have stopped him even if he could.

Dean was inside paying for the meal while he inquired about his pickle chips that hadn't been on the menu. Sam had opted to wait outside, hoping the cool air would settle his stomach and maybe his thoughts, thoughts that kept running in circles, chasing each other with maybe's, what if's, and how's, all with Dean sitting at the center. Sam just had to get him to Bobby's house. Bobby would know what to do—he always did.

Sam cast another glance back toward the diner, so completely lost in his thoughts that he almost missed the five-foot-something blonde chick slide up next to him.

Sam jerked his head back, giving the woman a once-over as she took a fry out of a takeout box and stuffed it into her mouth, pausing to giving the food an appraising look. "Mmm. These are amazing. It's like deep-fried crack. Try some." She offered the box up toward him.

"Can I . . . help you with something?" Sam's eyes bounced down to the container then back up again; he was pretty sure the she was either lost or confused or crazy, possibly all three.

"Nope." She devoured another fry as quickly as the first, pausing only a moment to throw a glance up at him. "You know, you are a very hard man to find, Sam Winchester."

Sam shook his head. "I'm easy when I need to be."

She paused mid-chew and turned toward Sam, a suggestive smirk stretching across her face.

Sam's eyes widened as he stood upright, patting the air between them with his fingers. "That's not . . . I mean, I'm easy when I want people." He raised his hands, still patting the air as he continued to backpedal. "To find me . . ." A flush crept across his ears; he pressed his lips tightly into a thin line, wishing not for the first time that he had his brother's ability to always know just what to say. Sam cleared his throat. "Why were you looking for me?"

"Because I'm interested in you."

Sam shifted his weight impatiently. "Why?" he asked more forcefully.

"Because you're tall." She paused a fry-consumption to let a slow smirk spread across her face. "I love a tall man." She returned her attention back to her fries with a nonchalant shrug. "And then there's the whole Antichrist thing."

"Excuse me?"

"You know." She waved a fry in the air. "Generation of psychic kids, Yellowed-Eyed Demon rounds you up, celebrity death match ensues. Only two make it out alive." Her voice raised at the end, clearly impressed with the fact that Sam was still breathing.

"Two?" Sam's eyebrows shot upwards. As far as he was aware, no one else had made it out alive but him. Sam cast his gaze around the parking lot then lowered his voice. "Who else made it out? And how do you even know about any of that?"

The woman shrugged. "I'm a good hunter," she said, brushing off his first question. She peeked in the now empty container of fries, looking mildly disappointed, then shrugged and tossed the garbage onto the ground. "So . . ." She turned, propping an elbow on the Impala and leaning against it. "Yellow Eyes had some pretty big plans for you, Sam."

" _Had_  being the keyword."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah." She waved her hand in the air. "That's right, ding-dong, the demon's dead. Good job with that. It doesn't change the fact that you're special . . . in that Anthony Michael Hall E.S.P. visions kind of way."

"No." Sam shook his head. "No, that stuff's not happening anymore. Not since Yellow-Eyes died."

She snorted. "Well, I'm thinking you're still a pretty big deal. I mean, with everything that's going on with your brother."

Sam narrowed his eyes, taking a step closer. "What are you talking about?" He squashed down the urge to look back at the diner. He knew something was wrong with Dean, but the thought that some unknown hunter not only knew as well but might know more filled Sam's stomach with a cold iciness. It meant he wasn't imagining things, that this, whatever this was, was real and big enough for others to know about, which was a whole other problem in and of itself. Sam knew how hunters reacted when they thought something was . . . unnatural. He still hadn't forgotten Gordon's attempts.

A slow smile drew across the woman's face. "You . . . don't know—"

"I know plenty," Sam cut her off. "I want to know what you  _think_  you know."

Her smile widened. "All right, no need to get snappy." She shot a look toward the diner.

Sam shifted, sliding in between the hunter and the diner his brother was currently occupying, feeling the irresistible urge to protect his brother, regardless of what might be going on, from this woman.

The hunter smiled at him, appearing more amused by his actions rather than annoyed. "Why don't we . . . go somewhere private to talk? Wouldn't want the wrong person to overhear."

"You want me to go somewhere with you? Alone?" Sam shook his head. "You think I'm stupid?"

The women merely smiled. "I think you want some answers."

"Here's fine." Sam's eyes narrowed, and he folded his arms over his chest.

The woman studied him for a long moment, her face showing the slightest hint of conflict before it smoothed out into the cocky smile she had worn before. "All right," she started slowly. "Here it is, then."

* * *

A disappointed frown pulled at Dean's lips. He supposed in the grand scheme of things it wasn't really important, but he'd been looking forward to the deep-fried pickle chips they served here. It felt like forever since the last time he had some, but when he talked to the manager after paying for their meal, the only thing he got was a confused but curious look.

"Deep-fried pickle chips, you say? No, we don't serve anything like that here, but . . ." The man scratched his thick chin. "That's not a bad idea." He then turned, yelling to some guy named Frank in an excited manner, leaving Dean standing at the counter, forgotten and pickle chip-less.

Dean heaved a sigh, choosing that moment to make his exit, deciding that it would be best not to think about the implications of what just happened. Time travel made his head hurt and wasn't worth the trouble on the best of days.

The little bell above the diner door gave a small ring as he shoved it open and stepped out into the cool, crisp air. He paused at the door, taking a moment to enjoy the warm rays of sunlight that splashed across his face. It was the little things that he'd missed back in his time, and even though he'd been back here for a handful of months now, there were just some things he could no longer take for granted, and a warm sun on a brisk autumn afternoon was one of them.

Dean took in another slow breath then let his eyes wander across the parking lot to the car and his brother. His brows drew together for a moment as he realized Sam was talking to someone rather animatedly. He couldn't see the person very well due to his sasquatchian sized brother blocking his view, but from what he could see, he could tell it was a girl. A smile spilled across his lips and lit up his eyes. "That's my boy."

His brother could use a bit unwinding.  _Though . . ._ Dean's face scrunched slightly. He really hoped they didn't unwind in his car. He shook his head vigorously—now there was an image he could do without.

Dean was considering going back inside, maybe helping himself to a piece of pie to both replace the image he didn't want in his head and to give his brother some alone time, when Sam shifted a step to his right and Dean got a good look at the woman he was talking to.

His stomach rolled and his heart slammed against his chest. Thoughts, feelings, and memories long buried by time came bursting forward, flooding his entire being. The anger, the rage, the resentment that he had felt all those years ago tangled with the fear and the helplessness he felt as he watched what his brother became, all of it coiled and twisted around one single name:  _Ruby._

Not bothering to wait for his brain to give the command, Dean's feet drove him forward across the parking lot, his vision narrowing down to one single figure. He knew he didn't have the Colt with him, but he wasn't going let something as simple as being unarmed stop him from killing the demon whore. He knew she would have the demon-killing knife on her; he just had to coax it away from her. Preferably with a brick to her face.

He saw Ruby's eyes glide over Sam's shoulder, saw the smirk she'd been wearing melt off her face and her whole body stiffen; he could see her flight-or-fight response kick in. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered that something was off about Ruby's reaction to seeing him. Ruby— _this_  Ruby—shouldn't have any reason to feel threatened by him. But the thought was quickly drowned out as he closed in on them.

Dean didn't waste any time with words or threats: he met her head-on with a crack of bone against flesh. Shocked yells and pained grunts followed as he slammed her back against the Impala, his Impala, the Impala she had been carelessly leaning against just moments ago. The very thought of her defiling his car with her filth while poisoning his brother's thoughts ignited a fire under his skin that itched with an explosive cry for release. It was a release he was more than happy to grant.

They clashed together in a tangle of limbs. Punches, kicks, and blocks exchanged, blood spilt and splattered in the span of a few breaths. He felt someone's hands on his arms, felt them attempt to pull him away, felt his elbow swing backwards and flesh give way as it connected.

He knew, as a demon, Ruby was physically stronger than him and capable of tossing him around. He also knew that she wouldn't be able to show off that supernatural strength unless she wanted to out herself as a demon, and without Dean's soul deal to hang over Sam's head, Ruby had nothing she could use to sink her claws into. This time around he was determined not to give her the chance.

She slammed her palm into his chest, causing Dean to stumble a step back. He felt hands on his arms again, a body against his back, but he shrugged the hands off and used the body to forcefully shove off of, slamming Ruby once more into the Impala and pinning her against its metal frame. His hand moved across her belt, his fingers wrapping around the smooth handle of Ruby's knife and ripping it from its sheath.

As he spun the blade in his hand, a flash of light tripped across his vision, causing him to falter. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the movement only seemed to make matters worse as voices and memories slammed into him with the force of a speeding truck, stealing his breath and causing him to stumble.

_No, no, no, not now._ Dean cursed under his breath; he gripped the knife tighter, trying to plant himself in the here and now, refusing to get sucked into the inevitable flashback.

" _She's poison, Sam."_

_His brother wouldn't listen to him—he was in too deep. Like an addict trying to give reason for one more hit._

" _I'm being practical here, Dean! I'm doing what needs to be done."_

The muscles along his jawline jumped and rippled as he tried to push the memory away, return to the fight and what needed to be done. What  _he_  needed to do to protect his brother, but the memory refused to release him from its grasp. Voices and images pressed against his skull and chest until he felt like he was going to crack in half.

" _Look what she did to you."_

" _She was looking for Lilith."_

" _That is French for manipulating your ass ten ways to Sunday."_

" _You're wrong, Dean."_

He felt something slam into the back of his head, tasted dirt and gravel in his mouth. There was more yelling, more voices then there had been previously, but they too were swept beneath the tide ripping through his mind.

" _You're lying to yourself. I just want you to be okay."_

A familiar pair of hands gripped him once more, lifting him up. He felt an arm across his chest as something hard and cool pressed against his back. He heard the creak of the Impala's door before he was shoved unceremoniously inside. As the door shut closed, Dean let himself list to the side, his forehead pressing against the cold glass of the window in an effort to cool the fire thrumming through his skull. Voices swam unsteadily through the air, muffled through the closed window of his car, intermingling with the voices from the past.

". . . should . . . police . . . attacking . . . innocent girl."

" _You don't know what you're doing, Sam"_

" _Yes, I do."_

Dean wasn't sure what they were talking about. He wasn't even sure who  _they_  were. Everything kept fading in and out, jumping between the now and then.

" _Then that's worse!"_

" _Why?"_

" _Because it's not something that you're doing—it's what you are! It means—"_

". . . wrong with . . . he's . . . dangerous."

" _What? No. Say it."_

". . . leaving, I swear . . . don't . . . again."

There were a few moments of blessed silence before the Impala's door's creaked open once more, this time on the opposite side of the car. He heard the key slide into the ignition and the car start before he felt a sudden jerk as the car peeled out from where it sat and hit the road.

The comforting rumble wrapped around him like a warm blanket. Dean sank down into its warm embrace, letting the world around him fade.

" _It means you're a monster."_

* * *

He eyed the large oak door in front of him and tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket. To be honest, he wasn't even sure why  _he_  was here. This was his superior's superior, and none of this was in his area of expertise—they had others to do this type of work. Not that it took a genius to do a little investigating, but his time would be better spent elsewhere.

He pulled his shoulders back, pushed the door open, and walked inside. The area looked much like a normal executive office complete with large bookcases and a large bay window just behind a cherry oak desk. Sitting at the desk was an older man looking to be somewhere around his mid-fifties: whitish grey hair circled around his head, leaving the top smooth and bare.

The older man looked up, his eyebrows jumping up to where his hairline once was. "Well?" Patience wasn't really the man's forte.

He cleared his throat, tugged once more on the bottom of his suit jacket, and stepped up toward the desk. "I did some digging around. The disturbance down in Florida a few months ago  _was_  temporal in nature."

The older man rolled his eyes. "You spent a few months investigating and that's all you came up with? I already knew that—even the ghouls know that. Tell me something I don't know."

"We were able to confirm that both Winchester brothers were present during the event, but we aren't sure if  _it_  was drawn to them or if they drew  _it_  to them."

The older man leaned forward, a sharp edge of impatience coloring his tone. "Have you tried asking them?"

He fidgeted. This was the part he wasn't particularly keen on telling his boss' boss. He had hoped to make it through this meeting without the subject coming up, but it would seem luck wasn't on his side. It wasn't that he was nervous, more that he was aware that the being before him did not take bad news well. He tugged on the bottom of his suit jacket. "We . . . we, uh, we can't find them."

"Excuse me?"

"I said we can't—"

"I heard what you said." The older man dragged a hand down his face then gestured widely with it. "Everything you have at your disposal, and you can't find two measly humans?"

He cleared his throat. "They, uh, appear to be hidden from us somehow."

"Really? You think so?" His expression pinched tightly "How? When did they fall off the grid?" He tapped the side of his hand against the desk, punctuating each word.

"We don't know. Just that . . . they did."

"Is there anything you do know?" His voice was strained pinched with barely suppressed agitation.

He nodded his head, relieved that he did in fact have what could be slightly good news. "There's a Witch Doctor somewhere near Osyka, Mississippi. He treated one or both of the brothers immediately after the event in Florida."

"You think this Witch Doctor may know something?"

He nodded. "It's possible. He was with them less than twenty-four hours after the event."

The older man leaned back in his seat, his finger trailing across his chin, then glanced up, gesturing toward the door. "Why are you still here?"

 


	12. Bad Seed- Part II

_Swing the noose again_

_Off the veil_

_Stand revealed_

_Bring it on_

_Break the Seal_

_At the mercy_

_Cat is out_

_Spit it up_

_Spit it out_

Bobby glanced over his shoulder; from his viewpoint he could just barely make out the dark form of the elder Winchester, elbow deep under the hood of the Impala, through the window of his study. He had no doubt Dean would be preoccupied out there for the next few hours, possible longer, giving him a chance to talk to the younger Winchester and find out what the hell was going on.

He'd been sitting as his desk, thumbing through an old book on various types of possessions—nothing he didn't already know—when the rumbling of an old but well-maintained Chevy Impala and the slamming of its doors shattered the silence that had previously filled the salvage yard. He made it to the front porch just in time to catch the tail end of a rather heated argument.

"Because she's a demon, Sam! They lie—it's what they do!" Dean gestured widely with his arms, glaring across the roof of his car.

"How could you possibly know that, Dean? I didn't smell any sulfur, there were no black eyes, and, oh yeah, she was more interested in helping rather than killing, you know, anything!" Sam matched his brother's glare. "So tell me  _how_  from all the way across a parking lot you were able to tell she was a demon."

If Bobby hadn't been watching he would have completely missed Dean's falter. It only lasted for a split second, but it was long enough.

"Because it's my job, Sam!" Dean threw back after only the smallest of pauses.

Bobby could hear the almost silent shiver in his voice, the one Dean got when he knew he was on shaky ground. A pause in the argument presented itself, and Bobby took the moment to step up to the front of the car. "All right, you two wanna tell me what's got your knickers in a bunch?"

"Sam's an idiot."

"Dean's an idiot."

Bobby pressed his lips in a thin line. Sometimes he had to remind himself that the two boys in front of him were actually men that had seen and killed more evil than most people have even dreamed up. Before Bobby could make his response Dean threw his hands in the air, addressing his younger brother. "You know what? Forget it. You wanna hang out with demons? That's fine." He started stomping off toward the direction of the garage while yelling over his shoulder. "But when you accidently let the devil out of his cage, don't come crying to me to stop the apocalypse."

"What the hell does  _that_  mean!?" Sam shouted back at Dean's retreating form.

That'd been a few hours ago. Dean was still bouncing from the garage to the Impala, choosing the company of his car over people for the moment, and Sam . . .

The more the boy thinks and worries and muses, the more he moves around, like a pinball flung about by flippers. He was going to beat the record now, turning the house into his own personal track, lap after lap. Bobby's eyes followed him as he cut a new path around the study. Bobby's lips twitched, wanting to tell the kid to sit the hell down already, because he thinks so damn loud and there's no room left for anyone else's thoughts.

Initially, his thoughts leaned toward the assumption that Sam was overreacting, that he was seeing something where there was nothing. But the boy was smart and was often able to see patterns most people would miss, so he wanted to give Sam the benefit of the doubt. Let him lay out his arguments before they decided if there really was something to worry about.

Sam had laid out his arguments, presented evidence in a fashion that would have any law firm fall over themselves. Most of the things Sam brought up—Dean forgetting about Hendrickson and that he was wanted for a slew of crimes, his willingness to support Sam if he wanted to go back to school, his treating Sam more like an equal rather than just a little brother—alone may raise an eyebrow, but they weren't anything to really raise a red flag over.

Together, however, they formed an odd pattern. What that pattern was neither of them could really decide on. None of Dean's actions were dangerous, just . . . not normal. Then there were the two events that  _did_  raise a red flag, the first being Dean's impossible knowledge of the hunt a few days ago with the dream root, and more recently Dean's rather violent reaction against another hunter in broad daylight in the middle of a crowded parking lot.

Bobby stepped forward, raising his hands in an attempt to stop Sam's anxious pacing before the boy wore a hole in his floor. "Okay, tell me what happened."

Sam's feet ground to a halt as he shoved a hand through his hair. He opened and shut his mouth in aborted attempts to properly articulate his thoughts. He blew out a short breath. "I was outside waiting for Dean to finish whatever he was doing in the diner. This girl approached me, said she was a hunter." He paused and licked his lips. "She knew stuff, Bobby, about me and the Yellow-Eyed demon. She also knew things about Dean, said that whatever is going on with him might be because something or someone is still interested in Yellow-Eyes' plans for me." Sam pulled his shoulders inward and glanced up at the older hunter, looking like the small child Bobby use to take care of and comfort when his brother couldn't. "Bobby, what if someone did something to Dean because of me?"

Bobby tapped the air between them. "One problem at a time. What else did this . . . ?"

"Ruby."

". . .  _Ruby_  have to say? Did she give any specifics? More importantly, is there any reason to think Dean may be right that she's a demon?"

Sam rubbed at the back of his neck. "She said there was an equivalent of a supernatural earthquake in Florida in April on the night of the 27th. She said there were tremors that followed the next few days that seemed to move from Florida to Mississippi. The date and place coincide with Dean falling into that coma. She suggested that something might be possessing him, but not the normal kind that we've seen. Something older and much more powerful." Sam dug a hand in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, and held it out to Bobby. "She gave me this. Said it's a spell that can exorcise any type of preternatural and supernatural entity from a person's body without harming the host."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, taking the paper and unfolding it. "And you just believed her?" He glanced over the words scrawled across the paper. The words were vaguely familiar, but the spell wasn't anything he'd seen before.

"What? No. I'm not using  _any_  spell on my brother just because some random hunter said so." Sam rubbed at the back of his neck. "I was hoping you could look at it. See if it's really what she said it is. If she was telling the truth, we can use it. If Dean is possessed by something, that spell could cast it out. If he's not, then it should have no effect at all."

"Provided your hunter friend is telling the truth." Bobby folded the paper in half as he moved to one of many haphazardly filled bookcases, looking for a specific book.

Sam followed him, peering over his shoulder at the books. "There's only one problem."

Bobby placed a hand on top of the short bookcase and glanced back at Sam. "Only one?"

Sam gave Bobby a quick bitch face before pressing forward. "If something is possessing Dean, it's not just gonna sit still while we exorcise it." He gestured to the paper in Bobby's hand. "And that's not really a short spell." Sam paused, a thought lighting across his face. "You think that's why he attacked Ruby?"

Bobby pulled a book from the shelf and looked up at Sam. "What do you mean?"

Sam shifted his weight across his feet. "Well, what if whatever is possessing Dean attacked Ruby and is claiming she's a demon because it knows Ruby at least has an idea of what's going on and how to get rid of it?" He went quiet for a moment, shaking his head. "I'm not sure I've ever seen that look in Dean's eyes before, even when we were dealing with Meg when Dad was . . .It was like he really and truly hated this girl. A girl that, as far as I'm aware, he'd never met before. Bobby . . . ." He glanced up through his eyelashes. "He was going to kill her. For those moments it was like his entire world narrowed down to ending that woman."

"Speaking of which, if Dean—or whatever—was so hell bent on killing her, how'd she get away?"

"I'm not . . . I guess he misstepped or something and someone got in a lucky shot."

Bobby rolled his lips inward. "Misstep? That doesn't sound much like your brother."

Sam shook his head. "No. But maybe Dean was fighting back against whatever is possessing him. Like he knew Ruby could help him and was trying to keep whatever from killing her."

"If anyone could do it, it'd be your stubborn, bull-headed brother."

"If the spell is real and can really save him . . . how are we going to use it on him? It's not a demon possession, so a devil's trap won't work. Whatever it is has no reaction to holy water, salt, iron, or silver. I tried all of them and nothing."

Bobby rubbed a hand over his beard. "I have an idea, but let's worry about seeing if this spell is the real deal first."

* * *

Dean rubbed his forehead, trying to keep the headache pounding behind his eyes at bay. He wasn't sure if it was from the flashback or the brick he apparently took to the back of the head—perhaps a combination of both. He knew Sam didn't believe him about Ruby, and to be fair he hadn't really given him a reason to. Trying to kill Ruby in the middle of a crowded parking lot in broad daylight wasn't very high up on his list of well-thought-out plans. When he saw her talking to his brother, leaning on his baby, all he could think about was how she had twisted Sam around her finger, how she ever so subtly turned them against one another. Because of Ruby, something in his and Sam's relationship had been broken, and it had taken  _years_  before they could even begin to mend it. He knew it was selfish, but when he saw the demon all he could think about was how he refused to go through that again.

He leaned forward, placing his hands on the lip of the Impala's open hood, once more weighing the pros and cons of keeping his secret from Sam. It wasn't that he didn't want to tell Sam that he did the time warp back into his younger self, but more that there was so much that happened in the future that he was ashamed of and didn't want his brother to know about, things that this Sam could never understand.  _This_  Sam still saw him as the unshakable older brother that could and would fix everything, the same way Dean had seen their father for so long. It was a selfish desire to want to preserve that bit of innocence in his little brother, but it was his, and after all the crap he'd been through, the things he had bared witness to, he felt entitled to hold onto this one thing for as long as he could.

Dean let out a sigh and gently shut the hood of the Impala. He knew Sam was currently pissed at him, and he had nothing to offer his brother in the way of explanations. For now he would just keep his distance, let Sam brood and then hope the whole thing blew over soon. Dean walked around the Impala; a beer was what he really needed right now. He paused at the passenger side door as the sun bounced off something metal sitting on the floorboard half shoved under the seat.

He opened the door, placing one hand on the doorframe as he leaned down to investigate. A smile crawled across his face as his fingers wrapped around the smooth wooden handle of Ruby's Kurdish demon-killing knife. Somehow, despite the assault of memories and the blow to his head, he must have kept hold of it until he passed out and it fell to the floorboard. He tucked the knife into the pocket of his coat. At least something good had come of that whole exchange.

Dean trudged up the stairs of the porch, through the old screen door, and headed straight for the kitchen in search of beer and a very large bottle of Ibuprofen.

He pulled back quickly when he entered the kitchen and nearly ran over Bobby, who was standing by the fridge, a beer in each hand.

"Little early to be double fisting, isn't it?" Dean forced a smirk and prepared to step around the older hunter.

"Cute." Bobby thrust one of the open bottles at Dean before taking a drag from his own. "How's the car?"

Dean took the bottle, his thumbnail scratching against the label. Bobby wasn't often one to beat around the bush when it came to approaching  _sensitive_  subjects. When he did, it was usually because he was searching for something; the old hunter was a lot sharper than some people gave him credit for. Today, however, Dean didn't feel like dealing with any small talk and probing questions. He just wanted to take some painkillers, drink his beer, and maybe pass out on the couch. If he was feeling particularly motivated, he might even make it upstairs to a bed.

He pulled the bottle up to his lips, then paused. "Sam tell you what happened at the diner?" He knew Sam would, it was how Sam functioned: he discussed things in an effort to understand them. He'd done it as a kid, and he'd still be doing it ten years from now.

Bobby nodded. "He told me. Said you think this Ruby girl is a demon."

Dean pulled the bottle away from his lips without taking drink. "That's because she was— _is_." This time Dean did step around the hunter, setting his beer down on the table as he pulled open a drawer he knew to hold various types of drugs. Most were of the too-strong-to-have-without-a-prescription variety, but Dean wasn't looking for anything stronger than Tylenol, and he had little want to spend the night in a drugged oblivion, though it was tempting.

Bobby leaned against the counter. "I never said she wasn't. Just, you know, you might want to be sure before you go attacking someone in a crowded parking lot."

Dean slammed the drawer shut, fighting down a wince as the sound reverberated through his head. "I was sure— _am_  sure. I don't care what lies she is trying to twist in Sam's mind. She's a demon and a manipulative bitch."

Bobby held his hands in front of him. "All right, all right, no need to take it out on the drawers."

Dean resisted the urge to rolls his eyes, not so much because it was disrespectful but because he was convinced that doing so would make his eyes explode from the pressure building behind them. For a short moment he considered the  _other_  drugs Bobby kept but dismissed the idea in favor of a long and deep pull from his not-so-frosty beer. He finished it in a few swallows, pulling back for only a moment, wrinkling his nose. The beer had a funny taste, like it was bitterer than it should have been. Dean shrugged; he wouldn't be surprised to find that Bobby had added a liberal amount of holy water to it, just to be safe.

He dropped the empty bottle into a nearby trashcan and turned to face said hunter. "Look, Bobby, I know—" He stopped short as he found the world teetering dangerously to its side. He threw a hand out to his side, searching, his fingers curling tightly around the top of a chair. "The fu—" He blinked forcefully, shaking his head, trying to clear it, but the action only made everything tilt faster and sharper. Suddenly his brother was standing next to him, a hand on his shoulder, his lips moving, but all the words were coming through garbled, like a broken radio.

Dean brought a hand up, fisting it in Sam's shirt as his knees buckled under him, and he felt himself slip toward the floor in a controlled fall. His mind skittered and skipped as he tried to figure out what was happening, what went wrong. He felt like he'd been . . . drugged. His eyes dragged up to his brother's face, mouth still moving around silent words, then over to Bobby, who was now standing less than a foot away. Dean realized that Sam wasn't talking to him, but to Bobby, and both appeared perfectly calm, like whatever was happening wasn't a surprise.

Dean scrunched his face and tried to pull back away from Sam's hands, only to find they'd been the only thing holding him up. He watched as a now blurred Sam lunged forward to catch him before Dean's already battered skull could bounce off any of the surrounding furniture.

As black spots danced and consumed his vision, he could hear his brother's voice break through the fog.

"You're okay, Dean. We're going to fix this. You'll be okay."

* * *

Consciousness returned at a slow crawl, moving through what felt like a drug-induced haze. The last thing Dean remembered was drinking a beer and talking with Bobby in the kitchen. Then everything got fuzzy and the floor rushed up to greet him, his brother's intervention the only thing that kept him from hitting his head. He also recalled the beer tasting a little bit . . . off.

_But Sam and Bobby, they couldn't have . . . they wouldn't have . . . would they?_

Dean pushed through the fog crowding his mind and became aware of several things: he wasn't lying down as one would expect to be when waking up, but instead he seemed to be sitting up—rather uncomfortably—in a chair. A halted attempt to move told him that he was secured to the chair with thick rope around his ankles and wrists.

Dean blinked forcefully, trying to clear his blurred vision. He could make out the muddled surroundings of Bobby's study, the furniture pushed to the sides of the room. He knew without looking that a devil's trap was above his head, but more curious were the markings beneath him on the floor. From what he could make out, it appeared to be a large chalked circle surrounding a seven-pointed star with a five-pointed star at its center. There was writing along the edges and in the center, but Dean could only recognize it as not English, Latin, or Enochian. It wasn't like anything he could recall seeing, but it was clear the symbol was meant to be a seal of sorts.

 _Fan-fuckin'-tastic,_  Dean thought humorlessly. They thought he was possessed . . . or worse, if there was a worse. He was pretty sure given a few moments he could come up with plenty of worsts.  _One of the infected, that would be a worse . . . worst. Definitely worst._

Dean let his eyes fall back to the seal at his feet. The real question at this point, though, was where were Sam and Bobby, and why the hell was he sitting in the study, tied to a chair by himself? Well, he knew why he was tied to a chair. At least he was mostly sure, like seventy-six percent sure.

The irony in his inability to lie was that he  _could_  lie and often did as a hunter without so much as a flinch. He'd spent a lifetime learning how to lie his way out of various circumstances; he just couldn't lie to Sam and Bobby, or at least he'd never been very good at it.

He had a feeling, however, that it wasn't the lies or secrets that gave him away, but more that Sam and Bobby knew him better than anyone else. But  _this_  Sam and Bobby knew a different Dean, with different habits and quirks, different instincts, different ways of saying things. This whole thing was his own fault for not being more careful.  _That_ , however, was not going to stop him from kicking his brother's ass at the first opportunity.

Dean's thoughts were brought to a halt as he heard the distinct sound of footsteps entering into the study behind him.  _Speak of the devils._  He twisted in his seat as much as the ropes would allow; he heard them pause before resuming once more with careful steps as they skirted around him, giving a wide berth.

Dean shifted his focus from one hunter to the other as they stood in front of him. Years of living together made Sam pretty easy to read, especially at this point in his life. Sam still wore most of his emotions in the open where everyone could see. He could see his brother was one part nervous, one part pissed, and two parts worried.

Bobby was a bit more difficult to read, as the elder hunter often masked his emotions, but Dean could see much of the same fear and concern Sam was showing reflected in the older man's eyes. They both thought something or someone was in him that wasn't supposed to be.

"Guys, look, whatever you're thinking, trust me, you're wrong. I'm not possessed." Dean was pretty sure that wasn't going to convince them of that fact, but it seemed like a good place to start.

"Not by any of the normal customers, no." Bobby folded his arms over his chest, studying Dean with a wary eye.

"What?" Dean's eyebrows scrunched inwards. "There is nothing else in here with me."

"Really?" Sam took a step forward, standing at the edge of the circle drawn on the floor. "It's just you, just plain old Dean?"

"Well, I wouldn't call myself plain or old, but yes. It's just me."

Sam ran his tongue across his lips and gave a slight nod. He then pulled a knife from an inside pocket of his coat. "Then explain this." It was Ruby's demon-killing knife. "I've never seen a knife like this before, nor has Bobby. So tell me where you got it,  _Dean._ "

 _That's easy to explain._ Dean opened his mouth to tell Sam where he got it and then a snarky suggestion of what Sam could do with it, but before the words could cross his lips his brother interrupted him.

"While you're at it"—Sam slid the knife back into his pocket and picked up an old familiar leather-bound journal from a table pushed to the far side of the room—"wanna explain this?"

Dean recognized the book instantly as the one he'd been making notes in since he came back in time. There was information in there about people, places, events that hadn't happened, dates when they would happen as best as Dean could recall.  _That_  information wasn't the problem—everything in the book was written in a very old form of Enochian, a language that was dead, buried, and turned to ashes so long ago that even the most advanced copies of the language were missing huge gaps.  _That one would be a bit more difficult to explain._

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, deciding the best way to avoid that question entirely. "You went through my stuff? The hell, Sam!" Indignation was always a good way to go, and it was easy to trudge up, as the longer he sat bound to a chair the more pissed he was getting.

"I don't even know if I'm talking to my brother or something pretending to be my brother." Sam tossed the book back to the table.

"Sam. If you don't untie me right now, so help me God, I will kick your ass."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, giving Sam a sidelong glance. "Well, it's got the attitude down."

"If it is just you in there, Dean, then I will happily let you kick my ass. But there are too many things that don't add up. The knife—"

"Is Ruby's. You know, the demon pretending to be a hunter."

"The book?"

Dean opened his mouth then snapped it shut.  _Nope, still couldn't explain that one._

"How you knew things about Bobby's hunt a few days ago even though Bobby  _never_  called you or told you anything about it."

He'd been wondering when  _that_  one would come back and bite him in the ass.

"But like you once told me, or Dean told me . . ." Sam paused, gesturing to a piece of paper in Bobby's hands. "We don't always have to operate on blind faith in this job. We can know for sure."

Dean's eyes bounced from Sam to Bobby to the piece of paper in his hands. He narrowed his eyes. "And how are you going to do that?"

"It's a spell that can exorcise any type of preternatural and supernatural entity from a person's body without harming the host."

"Really?" Dean tilted his chin downward and lifted his eyebrows. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach. Whatever spell they'd trudged up wasn't one he knew of, and that made him more uncomfortable than he was willing to admit. Dean narrowed his eyes a fraction. "And just where did you find said spell?"

"Ruby." Sam folded his arms over his chest, standard defiant brother pose.

"Ruby?"

"Yeah, you know." Sam shifted his weight while holding his brother's gaze. "Hunter you thought was a demon and tried to kill in the middle of a  _crowded_  parking lot in the  _middle_ of the day."

Dean twisted his mouth into a mocking smile. "That's great. Now we're taking random spells from random chicks who claim to be some random ass hunter that knows things no one should."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not an idiot, Dean. Bobby checked the spell out—it's the real deal."

Dean's eyes shot over to the silent older hunter, then back to his brother. "Pardon me if I don't trust something that came from a demon's grubby, manipulative mitts."

Sam shook his head. "You're wrong, Dean. She's not a demon."

"Really? And you know that for sure how?"

"Because she was eating French fries."

Silence settled over the room. Dean blinked twice then shattered the quiet with a resounding " _What?_ "

Bobby turned slightly to look at the younger hunter. Clearly Dean wasn't the only one thrown widely off by the declaration.

Sam looked between the two like his statement should have been the most obvious thing in the world. When the silence stretched on, Sam let out a long sigh. "Demons can't cross salt lines, so I'm pretty sure they can't ingest salt either.

Dean gaped at his little brother a long moment until an insincere chuckle spilt out. "So that's what we're doing now, taking the word of  _French fries_  over your own brother. That's . . . that's awesome." He shook his head. "God, I should have let the Hollow Men take me."

Bobby took a step forward, holding the sheets of paper in his hand. "If you idgits are done. . . . Like your brot—" Bobby paused, pursing his lips before starting again. "As Sam already said, I've checked the spell out. Regardless of where it came from, it's a real spell, and it does what it's supposed to do. If you are all Dean and nothing else, then the spell will have no effect and we will untie you. You can kick Sam's ass, and then we can sit down and figure out what the hell is going on." Bobby rubbed a hand across his bearded chin. "If you're not all Dean, if there is something else in there, this will force it out."

"For the record, if I die, I swear to God I'm haunting both of your asses so hard." Dean raised his chin. "Well, come on. The sooner you see the spell doesn't work the sooner you can untie me. I can get a beer and then kick your asses. In that order."

Sam fidgeted and chewed on his bottom lip as Bobby gave them both one last glance before lifting the paper and beginning reciting the spell.

Dean tried to relax; he was sure once they tried the spell and it didn't work they would believe he wasn't possessed by anything. They would still want answers about a few things, answers Dean wasn't sure he could spin believable lies for. Hell, he wasn't sure the truth was any more believable, but maybe it was the best he had, and maybe it was time to tell them. Maybe.

For a moment everything was still, Bobby's voice filling the room and washing over them.

It started like a murmur, like a distant hum at the back of his mind. Dean shook his head, trying to rid himself of the sound, but it only grew louder, rolling closer like thunder.

Then the fire hit him.

Like a liquid inferno, it seared through him with a vengeance, slamming into his cells, racing along his veins and igniting his nerves. It ricocheted between his head and chest before shattering outwards, tearing through him.

Riding on the heels of the fire were noises so loud he strained against the ropes, desperate to block it out. Cries and whispers screamed across his ears like nails dragged across a chalkboard. Images followed at a dizzying pace, searing through his mind, obliterating everything.

" _Don't be so full of yourself, Sammy. 'Cause from where I'm sitting—"_

" _Maybe you should just go somewhere for a while."_

" _That's a great idea. Unfortunately, my car's screwed to hell."_

" _Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean."_

"— _there ain't much difference between what I turned into and what you already are."_

Pressure built inside of him until he was sure his body would snap in half from the force alone. Things he never wanted to remember, never wanted to forget—they surged forward in tangled, confused clumps, overlapping each other, demanding attention.

" _The only thing you're gonna see is Michael killing your brother."_

" _My goodness, Dean Winchester has tipped over his king."_

" _Dean, if we're going to do this—"_

" _Well, then I ain't gonna let him die alone."_

" _Did you look for me, Sam?"_

"— _then we do it together, just as we always have."_

He couldn't breathe.

He fought to pull air through lungs that had been beaten flat by the pounding of his own heart. He felt himself slip toward the edge of a dark cliff, the ground crumbling beneath his feet as his own personal Hell opened up before him. He tried to pull away from the noise, the pain, but it surrounded him, consumed him, came from inside him.

" _Oh, he's in here, all right. And he's gonna feel the snap of your bones."_

" _You made a deal . . . for Sam, didn't you?"_

" _No, we did not get licorice, we got good snacks. Licorice is disgusting."_

" _Sam, it's okay. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you."_

" _I'm sorry. I didn't quite understand that, uh, Mr. Peanut-Butter-and-Banana Sandwiches?"_

" _I couldn't let him die, Bobby. He's my brother."_

He felt something splinter deep inside his chest, something that went deeper than blood and bone. He was being ripped into tiny pieces, each piece buckling and turning to ash under the intense pressure.

"' _Need' and 'Want' are two different things, now ain't they?"_

" _Cas? Dean?"_

" _Shut your face! Get in the car!"_

" _Dean, it's over for me. It doesn't have to be for you. You can keep going."_

" _It's all a figment. You, me, left, right. But no matter which way you turn, you keep ending up here."_

" _I'll call it. Time of death: 10:41 a.m."_

" _Who says I want to?"_

" _Why this figment? Why this place"_

A copper tang filled his mouth, coated his tongue, causing him to gag in between the impossibly loud screams echoing in his head.

" _I'm willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed Mom walk because of you."_

" _You're not evil, Dean. That's not an evil man."_

" _Don't you dare think that there is anything, past or present—"_

" _That's a good man crying to be heard, searching for some other way."_

"— _that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever!"_

" _What if I said I . . . I didn't want to die . . . yet, that I wasn't ready?"_


	13. In Between

_Let me apologize to begin with_

_Let me apologize for what I'm about to say_

_But trying to be someone else was harder than it seemed_

_And somehow I got caught up in between_

_Between my pride and my promise_

_Between my lies and how the truth gets in the way_

_The things I want to say to you get lost before they come_

Sam fidgeted, worrying on his bottom lip as he looked over to Bobby, who gave them both one last glance before he unfolded the paper and started reading aloud from it.

Nothing happened.

Sam wasn't sure whether he was relieved or worried. If the spell worked, he'd have his brother back. However, if the spell didn't work and Dean was just as he said, himself, that left a lot of questions still unanswered. Things that Sam couldn't even begin to explain, and he couldn't shake the feeling that there was just something . . .  _off_ , like a single instrument playing one beat faster than the rest of an orchestra, subtle and hard to find unless you knew exactly where to look.

He was about to write the spell off when Dean frowned and shook his head as if trying to dislodge water from his ears. Then, without warning, Dean bowed forward, pulling desperately at the ropes encircling his wrists, his mouth open in a silent scream. Sam felt his own breath stutter and skip along with Dean's; his pulse raced as his brother began to shake, slamming painfully hard against the back of the chair.

Dean cried out in pain.

It seemed to be pulled from deep inside his brother, starting out low and breathy before growing in intensity until Sam could feel it in his bones. The scream shook the air, turning Sam's blood to ice. Next to him he could hear Bobby stutter in the spell. Sam wanted to reach for Dean, do something, anything to stop the sound that was being ripped from his brother. He felt something crack inside him and spun, reaching out to grab Bobby's arm, his fingers digging into the hunter's sleeve.

"Bobby! Bobby, stop!"

A deafening silence filled the room as the spell ground to halt.

Sam's eyes snapped back to the center of the room where Dean sat, the ropes he'd reluctantly tied earlier now the only thing keeping his brother in his seat. He hesitated for the barest of seconds, knowing that if the spell had started working that that meant there  _was_  something possessing his brother, but his concern quickly eclipsed any caution he had for his own safety. He crossed over the chalked circle, practically sliding to his knees in front of his brother's slumped form. "Dean, hey."

Sam wrapped his fingers against the side of Dean's face, tilting his head upwards. Sam's heart twisted as he took in the blood covering his brother's face, dripping steadily from his nose and ears.

"I thought you said the spell wouldn't harm him!" Sam whipped his gaze around to the older hunter.

"Don't snap at me, boy. This was  _your_  spell. Everything I could find in the  _few hours_  I had to do research said that nothing would happen to the host.  _We_ , however, have  _no_  idea what he's playing host to or how trying to remove it can affect him."

A low hum rolled over Dean's lips; his eyelashes fluttered in aborted attempts to open. His head lulled against Sam's hand.

Sam tapped his fingers against Dean's cheek. "Come on, man. Open your eyes."

Dean's brow furrowed in concentrated effort before he slowly dragged his eyes open. "S'my?"

The tiniest of smiles pulled at the edges of Sam's lips. "Hey, there you are."

Tremors rolled over Dean in waves; his breath hitched and caught in the back of his throat before ripping free in a deep, bone-rattling cough, causing him to bend forward as far as the ropes would allow.

"Easy, man." Sam shifted his hand to Dean's shoulder, bracing him as best he could. His chest tightened uncomfortably as the coughing caused blood to appear on his brother's lips. "Hey, you okay, man?" He knew it was a dumb question but felt the need to ask anyway.

"'m tied . . . to a chair." Dean's words slurred; he narrowed his eyes in an attempt to focus.

Sam's lips slid into a loose frown. "Yeah, sorry, man."

Dean licked his lips, grimacing at the coppery taste covering them. "Why . . . am I . . . tied . . . to a . . . chair?"

"Dean . . ." Sam threw a look back over his shoulder. Bobby stood at the circle's edge, watching them carefully, ready to step in at a moment's notice. Sam turned his attention back to his brother. "Dean, something is possessing you. We're trying to get it out, but . . ."

Dean began to shake his head, stopping as a deep wince folded his face. "No."

Sam pressed his lips, unsure of  _what_  specifically Dean was saying no to. "Dean," he started slowly, hazarding a guess. "There are cases of people being possessed and never knowing about it. The spell started working—that proves there  _is_  something in you that doesn't belong."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, pulling in a shaky breath. "No." He clenched his jaw as a flash of pain ripped through his muscles. "There is nothing extra riding around in m—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes dropping to some middle ground as if seeing something only he could see.

"Dean?" Sam ducked his head, trying to catch his brother's eyes.

"It's . . . it's my soul," Dean whispered, talking more to himself than Sam or Bobby.

Sam's eyebrows squished together. "Your soul? What . . . ?" Sam wasn't even sure what question to ask.

A thick silence filled the room, causing Sam to fidget. He was about to prod his brother once more when Dean's eyes snapped up to his then bounced to Bobby and back again. "I . . . I can . . ." He swallowed thickly. "I'm not possessed. I promise. I can . . . explain . . . everything." Dean paused, trying to steady his breath. "Untie me and I'll explain—I promise." Dean's eyes darted back and forth as neither of them made any move to remove the rope. "Or, you know . . . here is fine." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as his heart beat out a painful cadence behind his ribs.

He wasn't sure how to approach the subject of time travel without coming off like a cheesy eighties flick. "This might be . . ." He paused, casting his eyes toward the ceiling as he searched for the best words. "Hard to believe."

"Try us." Bobby hooked his thumbs into his belt, the paper containing the spell still tucked securely between his fingers.

Dean licked his lips, stalling for another moment as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts. "You guys remember . . . the movie . . .  _X-Men: Days of Future Past_?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Dean, that's not a movie. There's a comic book by that title for X-Men, but no movie." Sam looked back at Bobby, who could only offer a shrug.

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth. "Right, that's not a thing yet. It was . . . a good movie, despite the changes. Uh, will be a good movie."

"Dean, what the hell are you talking about?"

"The movie. Kitty Pryde sends Wolverine's consciousness back to his younger self to fix the future, which had gone to hell."

"That's not what happened."

"It did in the movie."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, there is no movie."

"Not yet."

"What?" Sam shook his head. "Dean, why are we talking abou—" Sam paused suddenly, pulling his head back. "You're not . . . I mean . . . you can't . . . that's not even . . ."

"Possible?" Dean pushed down the sharp stab that flared in his chest as Sam pushed to his feet and took a step back. "It's entirely possible. Trust me."

Bobby's eyes bounced between the two. "You wanna share with the class?"

Dean attempted to shift into something resembling a more comfortable position. His chest and head were throbbing in an offbeat cadence that was becoming as annoying as it was painful. "I'm . . . I'm from . . . two thousand and . . . seventeen. Well, most of me, sort of. It's complicated."

Bobby's eyebrows climbed up toward his beaten trucker cap. "Time travel? That's what you're going with?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, time travel isn't possible."

"There are a lot of things we thought weren't possible until they suddenly were."

Bobby opened his mouth to reply then pressed his lips together, giving a small shrug while looking over to Sam. "He's got a point."

"Okay, even if time travel was possible . . ." Sam held his hands up. "One of the more common themes in anything dealing with time travel is that you don't change the past. Ever. No matter what." Sam turned his palms upward. "You risk a lot by doing so. Not to mention the moral implications involved. So, why?"

"Because there are some things worth risking everything to fix." Dean fidgeted in his seat. This had been one of those thousand questions he had wanted to avoid, and he wasn't entirely sure where to start. "I'm not going to go into the gory details, but . . ." He winced as a spasm jumped across his chest. "But the world . . ." He paused, staring at the middle ground between them. Memories from that last year floated to the forefront of his mind. Guilt for the part they played in releasing that kind of evil into the world, the desperation as they watched everything crumble and turn to ash around them, and the hope that died a little more each day until it to turned to ash in their hands. "There was nothing left." His voice a cracked whisper with barely enough strength to cross the length of the room.

He heard Sam and Bobby shift before his brother's voice slid through his thoughts. "If you change things in this time, does it change the things from your time?"

Dean scrunched his brow. In all the other instances when he'd traveled through time, it hadn't actually changed anything in the future, but in all those instances there were other things at play. This time around, not only had he changed the past, but there was currently no supernatural being that was putting things back into place. Dean looked between his brother and friend. "I don't know. I don't think so."

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line then shook his head. "No matter how bad things got, I can't believe . . . the Dean I know would never abandon people to—"

"Abandon? Are you fuckin' kidding me? Who is it you think I abandoned?"

Sam threw his arms outward. "How about all the innocent people, civilians, people who have no idea about the supernatural? You expect us to believe that you, Dean, just left them there to face that kind of evil alone?"

Dean let out a mirthless snort of laughter. "You don't get it. This isn't like it was with the Leviathans—"

"Leviathans?"

"—where everyone remained largely unaware that the world was driving itself off a cliff." Dean ignored Bobby's question, frustration building up in him and releasing in a torrent of words he never meant to share. "There  _were_  no innocent people left. Everyone still alive knew what was going on. They knew what was coming for them. Out of the seven  _billion_ people in the world, there were only maybe— _maybe_ —a few thousand people left. And most of them were scattered, hiding. Too afraid to live but terrified of what would find them in death. It was an enemy with  _no_  escape. So tell me: What was there left to abandon?"

Whatever response Sam or Bobby had was lost in a deafening roar that filled Dean's ears. His lungs seized and his chest spasmed painfully; he bent forward, attempting to curl himself around the pain. He felt a shift deep in his chest, like something trying to pull itself apart, tearing down the center, stealing his breath. It felt like forever before it settled back down into the dull ache from before. He blinked back the spots dancing across his vision, surprised to find his brother kneeling before him once more, hands on his shoulders, near the base of his neck.

"Dean! Hey, man. You okay?" Sam's eyes brimmed with worry, fear, and something else Dean was entirely too tired and worn out to place.

Dean gave a soft nod. "Yeah." His voice came out rougher than he wanted.

Sam worried on his bottom lip for a moment. "What was that?"

"I don't . . . I don't know." Dean frowned tightly, pressing a wince down as the pain flared up for a brief moment. It reminded him of the tearing sensation he'd experienced during the spell, perhaps an aftereffect that would hopefully die down with some time or, better yet, sleep. "I'm fine."

"If you are completely you, with nothing extra . . ." Bobby stepped forward, coming to stand next to Sam as the younger hunter let his hands slip down to rest on Dean's knees, turning to look up at the older hunter. "Then what was the spell trying to rip out?"

Sam turned back to Dean, his eyes searching for the same answer.

Dean licked his lips; he wasn't one hundred percent positive what the spell was doing, but he had an idea that he was pretty sure of. Like eighty-three percent sure. "I . . . I'm _completely_  me, but not without . . . something extra."

"Meaning?" Sam pulled his hands back but not completely away.

"Normally, when someone is sent through time—"

"Normally? This is a normal thing for you?" Bobby cocked his head to the side.

"It's happened a few times, but it was always a two-way trip before, and every time it happened we were sent back whole. As in physically sent back as we were, in our own bodies." Dean paused, trying to gather his thoughts and figure out the best way to explain without confusing everyone, including himself.

"I take it this time wasn't normal?" Bobby watched Dean carefully, taking everything in, once again proving the old hunter to be a lot quicker than most people gave him credit for.

"No, it wasn't. Cas tried to send me back whole, but—"

"Cas?" Sam shook his head. "Who's Cas?"

Dean pushed down the bit of frustration that flared forward. He understood their confusion but really wished they would stop interrupting him. He just wanted to get through this and then maybe sleep for a few days. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Cas is a friend. He's the one that sent me back. He tried to send me back whole, but . . . he didn't have enough power to do it, and the spell got messed up, I think.

"I, uh . . ." Dean blinked harshly as his vision dimmed for a moment. "He was only able to send my memories, consciousness, and soul back. The idea was that, theoretically, they would merge with my younger self."

"Theoretically? As in you didn't know?" Bobby shifted his stance, looking less guarded the more Dean talked.

Dean let out a small breath of amusement as Bobby echoed Dean's own words to Cas when the angel had pitched the idea to him. "Yeah, uh, nothing like it's been done before, but . . . I think . . . my soul from two thousand seventeen . . . it's not technically natural to this body, to my younger self. I think the spell was trying to rip it out, but . . . they should be merged together, so it can't . . ." Dean trailed off, letting a shaky breath skip over his lips.

"They can't be pulled back apart," Bobby finished for him. Dean merely nodded his agreement.

Sam pulled a hand back, dragging it down his face. "We could have . . ." He paused, his eyes bouncing from Dean's wrists back up to his brother's face. He swallowed thickly, reaching over to pull the knots free. "Let's get you out of this chair."

Dean watched distantly as Bobby joined Sam in making quick work of the ropes. He winced as they pulled the ropes away from his wrists. They were raw and angry; Dean vaguely remembered pulling against them in a desperate attempt to cover his ears to block out the screams and the memories that had threatened to drown him.

The ropes fell away, and Dean felt himself sag forward, his anticipated meeting with the floor halted by a pair of hands on each shoulder.

"Whoa, Dean." Sam wrapped his fingers around his bicep, steadying him in the chair. "Hey, man. You with us?"

"Mmm." Dean wanted to push himself from the chair, stand up like nothing was wrong, like he didn't feel as if he'd been beaten against every wall in the house, but all his energy was being poured into the breaths that kept skipping across his lungs. His whole body thrummed with exhaustion and pain.

He felt Sam and Bobby tuck a hand under each arm. As they lifted him into a standing position, the world tilted violently to the side before going completely black.

* * *

Sam swallowed thickly, tugging at the ropes around his brother's wrists and ankles. His mind raced with the information that had been unloaded in the last few . . . minutes? Hours? He wasn't sure how much time had passed. He wasn't sure it really mattered. At least not in this instance, though  _time_  in general—that did matter, more specifically, the traveling through it.

Sam rolled the idea around in his head as he pulled the last of the ropes from Dean's wrists, wincing at the bruised red skin. He tried not to think about how Dean got the marks, or worse, the scream that had been ripped from his brother. A shiver rolled down his spine. That wasn't something he ever wanted to hear come out of his older brother. It wasn't right.

Sam's hands shot up as his brother began to slump forward. "Whoa, Dean." He braced a hand against his shoulder as Bobby did the same with the other. "Hey, man. You with us?"

"Mmm." Dean's response rolled through pressed lips.

Sam's brows pinched together as he shot a quick glance to Bobby. "All right." He shifted his feet under him. "Let's get you up." With Bobby on the other side, they gripped Dean under his arms, pulling him up out of the chair. Sam started to release his hold when Dean's eyes rolled inwards and he crumbled like a house of cards, leaving both hunters scrambling to hold the now dead weight.

"Christ!" Bobby shifted his hold, trying to support the slumped hunter between them. "Give a man some warning, would ya!" He gestured with his head over to the couch while grumbling, "You two are gonna be the death of me yet."

Sam's face folded in a grimace of sympathy for the older man; trouble did seem to follow them in spades. He tried to rouse his brother once they had him settled on the couch but was unable to draw so much as a flinch from the older hunter. He pressed two fingers against Dean's neck, satisfied for the moment to find that while his pulse was a bit fast, it was strong and steady. His face was also flushed and warm, but Sam chalked it up to the day's events. He couldn't imagine what it would have felt like . . . well, any of it. All of it was hard to even believe, much less find a measure of understanding for.

He did, however, feel a cacophony of emotions and thoughts churn just beneath the surface. On the one hand, he found comfort in the knowledge that Dean, provided he was telling the truth, was just Dean. No supernatural being possessing him or anything of that nature. On the other hand, if Dean was telling the truth, that opened up a larger can of other . . . things. Things Sam was having a hard time wrapping his mind around. The implications of what he learned today were enormous; he didn't know how to begin sorting through all of it.

Sam's musing were interrupted by a damp washcloth obscuring his view of his brother. His eyes trailed upwards, locking on Bobby's. Sam blinked rapidly, unsure what the hunter wanted till he gestured at Dean with the washcloth. Looking back toward his brother, Sam realized Dean's face was still covered in rapidly drying blood. He reached up, pulling the cloth from the older man with a "Thanks," and began to meticulously remove the evidence of the spell they had started to use.

"Hey, Bobby?" Sam didn't have to look up to know that the man was still standing a step behind him, giving his full attention. "Do you . . . do you think what Dean said is possible? Do you think he actually traveled through time?" He glanced over his shoulder, gauging the hunter's response.

Bobby pursed his lips into the thin line, running a hand over his beard. After a long moment he finally spoke up. "I've never heard of anyone moving through time before. However, Dean is right in that there are a lot of things that we never thought possible until . . . they were." Bobby turned his eyes to the unconscious man on his couch. "If there is anyone stubborn and bull-headed enough to find a way to break all the rules and time travel"—he gestured to Dean—"it would be your brother."

* * *

Dean frowned at his little brother as he slid into the booth across from him. Sam was still wearing a look that seemed to be a mixture of moody concern, sprinkled liberally with distrust. He couldn't blame him. If he were in his shoes. . . . Dean stifled a sigh. That didn't mean he was going to let the younger man spend the whole trip looking like a kicked puppy. Dean nudged Sam's foot with his own. "Come on, man. Smile. Look—they have the Tuesday special." Dean gestured to a large sign. "Pig 'n' a poke."

 


	14. Back In Time

_Don't bet your future_

_On one roll of the dice_

_Better remember_

_Lightning never strikes twice_

Sam stood leaning against the sink in Bobby's kitchen; he let his eyes drift across the room to the figure sleeping on the couch, the figure that said he traveled from the future, from two thousand seventeen, into the past to fix a world that had gone to hell. He'd spent the better part of the night rolling the information around in his head and still came out empty handed, no closer to working through it than when he initially heard it.

Despite the impossible story, Sam couldn't help but find himself believing it. There were things he'd discovered or had happened over the last few months that had been bothering him that suddenly made sense, or at least more sense than before. Things like Dean forgetting about Hendrickson being on their tail, knowing about Bobby's hunt with the Dream Root kid, but more importantly Dean's attitude, ticks, and habits Sam couldn't remember him ever having before.

For Sam, Dean had always been relatively easy to read. He didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve and hid a lot of what he was feeling, but Sam always knew his brother, knew when he was hurting, when he was trying to hide something, and when he was being pushed beyond his limits.

But this Dean wasn't his brother.

This Dean confused the hell out of him.

This Dean was smoke and mirrors—one moment he was smiling, laughing without abandon or care; then, like a heartbeat later, he would have this dark, intense look, filled with a pain so deep it stole his breath.

It wasn't even a matter of words or expressions—it was something else entirely, something Sam could  _feel_. That's how he knew his brother was telling the truth.

The heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs pulled Sam from his thoughts. He gave a slight nod as Bobby walked in. Despite having gone to bed hours ago, the older hunter looked to have gotten about as much sleep as Sam had.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked in a hushed voice, gesturing over toward the study.

Sam followed Bobby's gaze, worrying on his bottom lip. "Quiet, finally."

They had settled Dean on the couch after he had passed out the night before. Not long afterwards, maybe an hour, his brother became restless. His temperature spiked, not enough to be dangerous but enough for Sam to force a Tylenol or two down his brother's throat and lay a cold cloth across his forehead. For his part Dean spent the night kicking out, tangling himself up in the blanket they had covered him with, and alternating between distressed whimpers Sam didn't even want to consider the source of and crying out names. Some he knew—most he didn't.

Sam and Bobby had spent most of the night trying to wake or at least calm the distressed man with very little success. At some point, Sam suggested Bobby go to bed since there wasn't much they could really do and promised to wake him if anything happened or they needed anything. It wasn't until a few hours ago that Dean had finally calmed down enough to fall into what Sam could only assume must have been an exhausted sleep, one which Sam felt the need to fall into soon before he fell over.

"How you doing?" Bobby interrupted his thoughts once more as he moved over toward the coffee machine.

Sam pushed away from the counter. He took a few steps toward the study then turned on his heel as he gave Bobby a small shrug. "Honestly? I don't know. I mean, it's weird, right? Even for us?"

Bobby pulled a tin from one of the cabinets, filling the top half of the coffee maker. "It's certainly a new one." He looked over his shoulder back to the younger hunter as he set the empty pot under the faucet.

Sam moved over to the small kitchen table; he pulled out a chair and dropped bonelessly into it. He scrubbed his face with both hands, feeling a deep ache hum through his body, begging for some sleep. "I just . . . I can't imagine how bad the world must have been in the future for Dean to decide time travel was the better option."

"That could just be failure of imagination on your part."

Sam narrowed his eyes, giving the back of Bobby's head a stern bitch face.

Bobby pulled the pot from the sink, sliding it into place and flicking the switch on. The sound of brewing caffeinated crack filled the air. He turned, leaning back against the counter, and folded his arms across his chest. "Look, we don't know what happened in the future. For all we know, it was a split-second decision. Your brother never was the type to really think things through before acting."

"Our Dean."

Bobby's eyebrows drew together. "Come again?"

Sam shifted in his chair. "Our Dean is the 'shoot-first-check-the-bodies-for-answers-later' type person. This Dean—" Sam gestured vaguely in the direction of the study. "This Dean has lived ten years we know nothing about. It's impossible to know how much he's changed in that time. For all we know he doesn't even like cheeseburgers anymore."

Bobby held his hands up, patting the air in front of him. "All right, calm down. Let's not get too crazy here."

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, an exasperated smile tugging at the very corner of his lips. "You know what I mean."

The coffee pot sputtered as it finished brewing; the rich aroma filled the air, prompting Bobby to turn and pour himself a cup. "Yeah, I know. But we can sit here all day pondering over the whos and hows and the whys of this whole mess and still not be any closer to understanding any of it." He took a deep drink from his coffee, relishing its life-giving properties for a moment before continuing. "Unfortunately, the only person that really knows anything is your brother."

Sam ran his fingers through his hair and then let his hand drop to the table. "Yeah, 'cause we know how forthcoming  _he_  is with information."

Bobby shrugged. "At least you know  _some_  things haven't changed."

"Lucky us," Sam muttered with a vaguely petulant tone. He scratched his nail against the scrubbed wooden table before his eyes bounced back up to Bobby, a new thought relighting the fire in them. "Which brings up one other question."

"Just one?"

Sam ignored the comment. "If Dean's from two thousand seventeen, if his memories, his consciousness, and his soul were sent back to this time to  _merge_  with our Dean . . . I mean, what does that mean? Does our Dean cease to exist completely? Isn't that like murdering your younger self?"

"Sort of, yes and no."

Sam turned around in his chair as his brother's answer stretched the short distance across the room.

Dean sat hunched over on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands pressed against his face. His hair stood up in different directions, revealing just how rough the night had been.

Sam waited a moment before asking, "What do you mean 'yes and no'?"

Dean gave a sniff then let his hands drop between his knees; he narrowed his eyes, staring sightlessly at the ground as if all the answers were written in the threads of the well-worn carpet. The silence dragged on to the point where it was almost uncomfortable before Dean pushed up off the couch and ambled into the kitchen, stopping halfway there to lean against the doorframe.

"It's complicated—"

Sam snorted.

Dean rubbed a finger across his lower lip. "When the . . . future version of myself was sent back to this time to . . . merge with my past self . . ." He paused, his eyes dropping back to that middle ground Sam had seen him drop into a few times in the last day or so. "Some things from each of us survived. I think it was the feelings or thoughts or habits that were the strongest in each of us. I mean, obviously there are a lot of things that we both had in common, seeing as we are the same person. But . . . there are  _things_  that I . . . hadn't thought about or done in a long time that are suddenly at the forefront of my mind again."

"Like what things?" Sam braced his forearm against the back of his chair as he turned to get a better look at his brother.

Dean shrugged. "Little things." A half smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "If you're waiting for me to spill my deepest darkest feelings . . . then I'm sorry to burst your bubble there, Sammy, but as Bobby said: there are some things that just don't change."

Sam was about to respond when the shrill sound of a phone ringing cut through the room. Bobby quickly covered the distance to the phones, grumbling something under his breath that had Sam vaguely hoping that whoever was calling wouldn't be within shotgun distance before Bobby could finish his coffee.

While Bobby talked on the phone, Sam turned his attention to his brother. Dean was still leaning up against the doorframe, his shoulders hunched slightly inward around his chest and his face still a little paler than it should be, though all in all he looked a sight better than he had a few hours ago.

Bobby hung up the phone, looking between the two boys before asking, "Up for a trip to Florida?"

* * *

Dean hummed under his breath while his fingers tapped out the rhythm to Asia's "Heat of the Moment"against the Impala's steering wheel. From the corner of his eye, he studied his brother, who'd been oddly quiet since leaving Bobby's. While the silence was a nice change, a quiet Sam was never a good thing: it usually meant Sam was either pissed at him or something was eating at the kid. Judging by the glances his brother kept shooting his way when he thought he wasn't looking, Dean was pretty sure Sam wasn't pissed at him. Which then left the question: what was eating at Gilbert Grape?

Dean had known Sam for his entire life, plus ten years. Over those years Sam had grown, matured, learned hard-won lessons, and became better for them. However, no matter how much time had passed, no matter what they went through, together or separately, there were a few things about Sam that remained constant. First, the kid couldn't lie to save his life, at least not to those who knew him. Second, the man will never let Dean give him a proper haircut. The one time he had tried ended in a wrestling match, blood, stitches, and a whole new scar. Third, and perhaps most important, was when something was gnawing at Sam, one only had to be patient and wait. Sooner or later—usually sooner—Sam would speak up and share what's on his mind. While Dean had a habit of internalizing everything, his little brother was the polar opposite. Not only did he feel better, but Sam  _operated_  better when he shared his thoughts aloud, like saying them to someone helped him in whatever he needed to do with the thoughts, regardless of if it was just coming to terms with something or it was trying to solve some problem on a hunt.

Of course, there were times, for one reason or another, when Sam would just stew in his own thoughts trying to figure things out. As much as Dean hated it, whatever question was on the tip of Sam's tongue would have to be coaxed out of the kid before he drove them both batty.

This was one of those times.

"Sam." He cast a quick glance over to his younger brother. "Whatever it is you wanna ask, just ask it, preferably before your head explodes. Brain goop and blood is a pain in the ass to get out of the interior."

"I—wait. Have you had to . . ." Sam trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the seats.

Dean flicked something between a glare and look of utter exasperation over in Sam's direction before returning it to the road.

Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, turning so his back was more against the door. "I was just wondering, uh . . . Ruby. I mean, did you know her before, in your time? Is that how you . . . ?"

"Knew she was a demon? Yeah, Sam. She was a pain in the ass manipulative bitch that deserves nothing less than a very slow, very painful death."

"So not on the Christmas list."

Dean gave his brother a sidelong glance. "Somehow I feel who's getting a Christmas card this year isn't what you've been chewing on for the last couple of hours."

"No." Sam tugged on the sleeve of his shirt. "No, I was just, uh, wondering. If she was . . .  _is_  a demon, then . . . how'd she eat salted fries with no problem?"

Dean opened his mouth then snapped it shut. "Really? You find out that I have traveled back in time ten years and that's the question that has been eating at your brain for the last—" he glanced at his watch "—six hours?"

Sam gave a small shrug that reminded him of an older Sam asking off-the-wall questions about something he discovered while rummaging through the bunker.

"If demons can't cross salt, how can they eat it?" Sam pressed the question again.

Dean heaved a much put-upon sigh, muttering under his breath, "I never had a problem."

"What?"

"What?"

Sam squinted softly, tilting his head. He was about to respond when Dean cut him off. "It's actually a rather simple explanation."

"Really?"

"Really."

"And that explanation is . . ."

Sam shifted, leaning a bit toward him, once more reminding him of an older Sammy.

Dean rubbed his thumb across his eyebrow. "Okay, so you know salt repels demons because it's pure."

"Right," Sam responded slowly.

"When you cook with salt, or add it to things like oils and grease, the salt loses that purity. Sort of like the breaking down of an element. It's still salt, and it still burns, but it's more like . . ." Dean trailed off, searching his memory for the best description of what salt was like to a demon. "Like eating a Carolina Reaper."

"A what now?"

Dean shot a quick glance over to his brother. "Carolina Reaper? It's a pepper, the hottest one in existence."

Sam's brow furrowed deeply. "I thought the hottest pepper was the ghost pepper."

"Nope, well. . ." Dean flicked his eyes skyward. "Might have to give that one a few more years." He shook his head. "It's like the ghost pepper but twice as hot."

"Oh." Sam sat silent for a moment, chewing on the information. After a long pause he looked back over to Dean, his eyebrows raised in an arch. "Wait, how do you even know that?"

Dean gave Sam a sidelong glance then shifted in his seat as he cleared his throat. "It's, uh, a long, boring story." He turned his attention back to the road, purposefully not looking at his brother in the hope that Sam wouldn't ask. It wasn't exactly his proudest moment and certainly not one he wished to rehash with his little brother. Dean let out a silent sigh of relief when Sam turned his attention back to the passenger side window. He leaned forward, turning the music up, Metallica filling the air between them.

* * *

"Hey, Dean?" Sam glanced over from the passenger seat to his brother, waiting a moment to make sure he had his attention before continuing. Sam licked his lips, carefully choosing his words before asking, "Who's Charlie?"

Dean jerked his head back, his eyes snapping over to Sam's then back to the road. "What?"

Sam cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "The girl the Naveath turned into? Short, red hair—"

"I know who she is!"

" _I_  was wondering who she was." Sam shifted again.

"Why?"

Sam knew this wasn't a conversation his brother wanted to have, but he couldn't help his curiosity. Part of it was wanting to understand and get to know this new brother, and another was because of the things the Naveath had said. He swallowed thickly. "Because she was obviously someone important to you."

When Dean shot Sam a look that bordered somewhere between surprise and "shut the fuck up," he knew he was on the right path. "You shoved me against a wall last time I asked about her," Sam reminded him before his brother had a chance to deflect or dodge the statement. "I know she's not nobody."

Dean pressed his lips into a tight line then gave a dejected sigh. "She was a friend." He paused and then added, "Like the sister I never wanted." A ghost of a smile brushed across Dean's face before it slipped away with a clearing of his throat. "She got caught up in some of our crap a while back when some monsters decided to try their hands at role reversal and hunt us instead."

Dean kept focused on the road away from his brother, but Sam knew without looking that the same pain he had seen in the motel room after the Naveath was clouding his brother's eyes.

"She helped us out on some things, saved our lives." Dean released a snort. "Saved Oz." The almost smile slipped away once more. "She gave more than anyone could ever ask. Than anyone should. Then, uh, a few years back I . . . I got into some trouble. And you were trying to help me." His voice turned hard as his gaze flickered over to Sam. "Even though I told you to leave it be."

Dean dragged a hand down his face and cleared his throat. "Anyway, you asked her for help and she . . . she got caught in the crossfire. She was killed, senselessly, like a bad plot twist." Dean clenched his jaw tightly, the muscles bouncing and rippling in response. Sam could see the hint of wetness in Dean's eyes.

Sam took a deep breath. "Dean, I'm sorr—"

"Don't," Dean cut him off before he could finish.

"Dean, I—"

"Sam." His voice held a cold edge to it. "You weren't there and you don't know. Don't apologize for something you can't possibly understand."

Sam attempted to swallow around a painful lump that had lodged itself in his throat. "Dean," he started in a hushed voice, but before he could say another word Dean leaned forward and cranked up the volume on the radio, Metallica's "Disposable Heroes" cutting off any further attempt at conversation.

* * *

Dean frowned at his little brother as he slid into the booth across from him. Sam was still wearing a look that seemed to be a mixture of moody concern sprinkled liberally with brooding. He couldn't blame him. If he were in his shoes. . . . Dean stifled a sigh. That didn't mean he was going to let the younger man spend the whole trip looking like a kicked puppy. Dean nudged Sam's foot with his own. "Come on, man. Smile. Look—they have the Tuesday special." Dean gestured to a large sign. "Pig 'n' a poke."

Sam glanced up, his eyes trailing to where Dean was pointing. "You even know what that is?"

Before Dean could answer, a busty, slim-cut waitress stepped up to their table, a notepad in one hand and pencil in the other. "You boys ready?"

Dean pressed on his most charming smile. "Absolutely." He looked at the nametag half hidden beneath blonde strands of hair. "Alex."

A blush filled her cheeks, causing Sam to roll his eyes.

"I'll have the special, side of bacon, and a coffee."

"Make it two coffees and a short stack," Sam added, handing her his menu.

Sam waited until the waitress was out of earshot before shaking his head at his brother. "Dude, she's like sixteen."

"What?" Dean gave him his best innocent face. "I didn't say anything."

"Uh-huh."

Dean leaned back against the seat. "All right, so tell me about this . . . haunted house thing Bobby wanted us to check out."

Sam cocked his head to the side and let out a soft snort. "Good to know ten years hasn't made your hearing any better."

"Shut up." He gestured to the papers as Sam unfolded them and laid them on the table. "Ya gonna tell me or should we play Fifty Questions?"

A small smile played at the corner of Sam's mouth before disappearing under his words. "All right, so this professor—"

" _Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?"_

Dean winced, rubbing at his ear with the heel of his hand.

" _I remember you were pretty whacked out of it yesterday."_

"—last week when he vanished."

" _I just had a really weird dream."_

Dean glanced around the small diner, his face scrunching up. There was something vaguely familiar about the place, but it was more like a tickle in the back of his mind rather than anything concrete.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" Dean slid his attention back to his brother.

"You okay?" Sam leaned forward against the table, focusing on the man across from him.

Dean nodded softly. "I know this place. We've been here before." His eyes roamed across the diner and its patrons, looking for some kind of hint that would pull loose the memory he wanted.

"We've been here before as in you and me, or as in you and . . ." Sam made a vague gesture. "You know. In the future."

Dean's eyes snapped back over to his brother. "What?"

"You know, you and the future . . . version . . . of me."

"Oh." He gave a small nod. "Yeah, that one." Dean ran his thumb across his forefinger. "Where did you say the guy disappeared at?"

Sam looked back down at the papers on the table. "It was, uh, the Broward County Mys—"

"Shove over, kiddo! Make some room for your elders."

Sam and Dean both started; their heads whipped around in unison as an elderly man forced his way onto the bench Sam was sitting on, shoving the much larger man toward the wall with more strength than anyone would expect from the smaller thinner-framed man.

"Uh . . ." Sam looked over to his older brother for help.

Dean gave a small shrug accompanied with an equally clueless expression. "Do you . . . ?" He turned his palm upward, gesturing to the older gentleman. "Are you . . . ?" Dean frowned and shrugged, unsure of what was happening.

"So there I was." The older man leaned forward, his hands splayed out animatedly as he talked. "Sitting in a diner enjoying my pancakes and maple syrup when these two yahoos walk in." A crooked smile fills his face. "I think to myself: now there's some entertainment for the next . . ." He blew out his cheeks with a laugh. "Well, let's just say a while. Then I saw you." The man's eyes locked on to Dean's, his voice adopting a sharp edge. "And all I could think was: wow, someone cast a spell without reading the fine print."

Dean's eyebrows knitted together; he looked at the old man sitting across from him then around at the diner. A sharp lance of pain seared across Dean's chest, knocking loose the memory he'd been looking for, then quickly faded back into the dull throb that had been dogging him since he woke up on Bobby's couch. "I know who you are."

"You think so?" The elderly man sitting across from him disappeared in a shimmer of air, being replaced by a much younger-looking man. "And they say Sam is the smart one."

Sam jerked in his seat. "Wait, we killed you. How . . . ?"

"Hello . . ." He gestured to himself. "Trickster." He shook his head as if that fact was completely obvious and shouldn't need explaining.

Dean gave a thoughtful frown then shook his head. "No." He locked his gaze on the Trickster. "I  _know_  who and  _what_  you are."

The smile melted off the Trickster's face, turning down at the corners as his eyes turned cold. "Trust me, kiddo, you don't know anything."

Dean leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "Really? How 'bout I tell your  _family_  where you are? Because, you know, witness protection only works when no one knows about it."

The Trickster's eyes narrowed into pinpoints, and before either Sam or Dean could react the Trickster shot to his feet, hands snapping across the table to grab a handful of Dean's shirt. He yanked the older Winchester out of his seat, half dragging him across the table, then roughly slammed his palm against Dean's forehead.

Dean clenched his jaw against the pressure ripping through his mind, threatening to crack it into pieces so small they would never be able to put him back together again. Flashes of lights and sound sped across his vision, searing into the back of his eyes. He could hear his brother call out, but the sound was muffled, like yelling through several feet of water.

Then, as quick as it had started, it was over. The Trickster pulled his hand away, letting Dean fall back against the seat with a heavy thud.

Dean curled forward, pressing his palms tightly against his head. He flinched when a hand against his shoulder kept him from toppling out of his seat.

"Dean?" It was Sam's hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"'m fine." He sat still for a moment before dropping his hand and shaking his head, trying to rid himself of the pain lingering just behind his eyes. He looked up just in time to see a myriad of emotions warring for dominance across the Trickster's face before the neutral snarky mask dropped down once more.

"The hell was  _that_?" Sam shot the trickster an accusing glare.

For a moment Dean was surprised that their commotion hadn't drawn the attention of the patrons and workers in the diner; a glance around the area quickly told him why: They were all frozen in time.

The Trickster pressed his lips into a thin line. "Memories 2.0: Dean Winchester style."

"Memories two point . . ." Sam lifted his chin, the muscles corded tightly. "You viewed his memories?"

The Trickster shrugged as he sat down, relaxing against the seat. "Oh yeah, and let me tell you." He let out an appreciative whistle. "The things this one's done . . . become." He leaned forward, folding his arms on the table's surface. "Unleashed."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the Trickster, giving the man a decidedly dirty glare. He felt more than a little violated at the thought of someone rummaging through his memories.

The Trickster merely returned the glare with an unimpressed glare of his own. "So, I guess the rumors are true."

Sam gave his brother one last look-over before motioning to the man to slide over a bit and taking a seat next to him, his shoulder pressing against Dean's. "What rumors?" Sam tilted his body forward, almost mimicking the Trickster's posture.

"That big bro here"—he shoved a finger in Dean's direction—"did the time warp. Can't say I blame him." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I mean, considering what all happened, how badly you screwed up the world." He held Dean in his gaze while shaking his head.

"All right, you know what? Blow me." Dean tapped a finger violently against the table. "Seeing my memories doesn't give you the right to judge them. You weren't there."

An unidentifiable expression jumped across the Trickster's face before disappearing once more under a mask of unconcerned amusement. An awkward silence filled the small still-frozen-in-time-diner as the oldest Winchester and Trickster exchanged glares full of meaning and unspoken words.

Sam cleared his throat, attempting to grab both men's attention. "You said rumors. From where? I mean, how would anyone even know?"

The Trickster shifted his attention to Sam. "You really think you can hurl a soul through time without anyone noticing?" His eyes flicked back to Dean. "Every creature with a connection to the supernatural knows something  _big_  happened, that someone is screwing with the timeline, and they are all looking at you two." His gaze shifted from Dean over to Sam and back again. "Congratulations, boys. You are on everyone's most wanted list."

"Both of us?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Why would they be after Sam? He didn't even know anything about this until just recently. Like yesterday recently."

"According to the rumor mill, no one actually knows anything beyond the fact that whatever happened, you two were both at the center of it." The Trickster leaned back against the bench, propping an arm up on the back of the seat. "Fortunately for you, knuckleheads, no one seems to be able to find you. Plum up and fallen off the grid."

"How—"

"Hex bags," Dean interrupted Sam's question. "Extra crunchy. They, uh, they hide us from every supernatural being in existence." Dean glanced up at the ceiling for a brief moment. "Well, minus one or two."

Sam opened his mouth, a question on the tip of his tongue, but instead just shook his head and directed a different question to the man across the table. "Then how'd you find us?"

The Trickster's smile grew. "Because of all the diners in all the world, you had to walk into mine."

"Really?" Sam's eyebrows shot up toward his shaggy hairline.

The Trickster merely shrugged, holding his hands out wide. "Call it coincidence, call it fate, call it a mid-summer night's dream."

Sam gave a short nod. "All right then, if you weren't looking for us . . ." He paused, shifting in his seat and leaning forward. "Then why bother talking to us at all? Last time we saw you, you tried to kill us, and we  _thought_  we had killed you."

"Because I like this world. Carved out my own little corner. And I would rather this walking, talking supernatural atomic bomb . . ." The Trickster kept his eyes on Sam as he gestured to Dean. ". . . to not blow a hole in it."

"What?" both boys asked in unison.

"You really don't know, do you?" The Trickster gave them both appraising looks before letting out a short whistle. "You sorry sons of bitches."

Dean's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Know what?"

"You're burning out, bucko. And judging by the giant crack running right through the center . . ." The Trickster squinted, looking at something only he could see. "I give it a week or so, a month at the most."


	15. Clevermind

_Looking at the road that rises up ahead_

_I thought I'd learned a thing or two_

_But this is where it's all made new_

_And I gotta throw my hands up_

_'Cause I can't go on if I can't stop_

"You really don't know, do you?" The trickster gave them both appraising looks before letting out a low whistle. "You sorry sons of bitches."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Know what?"

"You're burning out, bucko. And judging by the giant crack running right through the center . . ." The Trickster squinted, looking at something only he could see. "I give it a week or so, month at most."

A frown pulled at the corner of Dean's mouth; he recalled Azazel telling him almost the exact same thing: that he'd burn out in a few months. Though Azazel had predicted six months, and that was three months ago. Dean wondered if the demon had been wrong or if something had changed the rules in the middle of the game. He had a sneaking suspicion that something did, and the something was the spell Sam and Bobby had started. Since the aborted spell, there was an unrelenting ache that settled deep in his chest and refused to let go.

"What are you talking about?" Sam shot a quick glance at Dean before returning his attention to the man sitting across from them.

The Trickster leaned back from the table and then lifted an arm to rest against the back of the bench. A humorless smile spread across his face as he let out a chuckle. "Think of the human soul like its own little nuclear reactor. Now—" He paused, moving his gaze between each brother, making sure they were listening. "What do you think would happen if you put two nuclear reactors into a container only meant for one?"

Sam's eyes dropped back to the table. Dean watched as his younger brother mulled the question over in his head, producing answers and discarding them in a manner of seconds until he found one that made the most sense to him.

Sam shook his head. "It wouldn't be able to contain it. The container would be destroyed."

The Trickster pointed to Sam. "Bingo. Now you think  _that_  sounds bad." He let out a soft chuckle. "Ever hear of the Tunguska event of 1908?"

Sam's eyebrows pulled together tightly, a frown playing across his lips.

"It was an explosion in Krasnoyarsk Krai, Russia." Dean tilted his head back. "Destroyed over eight hundred and thirty square miles in a radial pattern."

Sam pulled his head back, his eyebrows jumping up toward his hairline as he shot a glance in Dean's direction.

"What?" Dean gave a half shrug. "One of the rumors was that it was Nikola Tesla's doing."

A line forged its way between Sam's eyebrows.

"Come on, man." Dean turned his palms upward, splaying his fingers against the air. "Tesla? Doomsday weapon? How do you  _not_  know this?"

Sam shook his head with a roll of his eyes and then directed his attention forward once more. "What does any of that have to do with Dean's soul?"

"Souls," the Trickster corrected. "And everything. That explosion? It wasn't caused by some meteor or doomsday weapon. It was caused by an unstable soul."

"Unstable . . . soul?" Sam worried on his bottom lip as his eyes snapped over to Dean once more. He rolled his lips against his teeth. "You're saying Dean's soul— _souls_  . . . are unstable?"

A false humor lit the Trickster's eyes. "Oh, yeah." He gave an exaggerated nod. "Tell me, Dean-o, have any chest pains recently? Problems breathing? Headaches? Exhaustion? Issues concentrating?"

"You sound like one of those annoying late night drug commercials, you know that, right?" Dean threw back, pointedly ignoring the look his brother was giving him while resisting the urge to press his hand against his chest as the deep ache flared to life once more.

"Wait." Sam tapped his fingers against the air. "Why should we believe anything you say? You are a Trickster; for all we know, this could be another one of your games."

The Trickster shrugged nonchalantly. "I already told you: I like this world and don't wanna see your brother take out a chunk of it when he goes—" He made an exploding sound, flicking his hands outward in an accompanying gesture. "You think the Tunguska event was impressive? That was just one comparatively normal soul. Your brother has  _two_  souls, half merged and shoved into his meat suit like an over-stuffed hoagie."

Dean cast his eyes skyward, his eyebrows jumping toward his hairline.

There was a brief pause before the Trickster continued. "That's not even the worst of it. One of those souls"—he jabbed a finger in Dean's direction—"has been marked and scarred by so many things that when it does blow, it's gonna leave a supernatural hotspot that'll make the Bermuda Triangle seem like a minor hiccup. And that, of course, isn't even taking into account that he's a walking, talking, human paradox. No telling what could happen when  _that_  particular party favor blows its top."

Dean tilted his head, opening his mouth then shutting it once more as he struggled to pull up the words sitting on the tip of his tongue. He dug his fingertips into his forehead. "Death said the soul can't be destroyed . . . or broken."

Sam's forehead creased as he cocked his head to the side. " _Death_  . . . said?"

Dean had the good graces to spare his brother a sheepish half shrug before returning his attention to the demi-god across the table.

The Trickster nodded slowly. "It can't be. Per se."

"Per se?" Dean dropped his hand, letting it fall to the table.

The Trickster nodded once more. "Under most circumstances the soul can't be broken. Not by Hell. Not by Purgatory. Not by any form of supernatural being. It can be flayed, beaten, shredded, and torn apart in ways most people can only imagine." He gave Dean a pointed look. "As I'm sure you know better than anyone." He paused for a moment. "But it can't be broken."

Sam gave Dean a curious look that begged for answers to questions that would be asked at a later time. Dean faintly hoped that that later time would never come, or if it did it involved copious amounts of alcohol.

Sam dragged his eyes away from Dean before asking, "I assume this can't be filed under most circumstances?"

"This can't be filed under any circumstances.  _This_ "—the Trickster tapped a finger against the table's surface—"has never been done before."

Dean closed his eyes. He wanted to ask about the other soul, the one that exploded before, but he wasn't sure it really mattered. Whatever it was that had caused  _that_  soul to go nuclear was a different situation, one that whoever was involved hadn't been able to stop.

Or was it?

He didn't imagine there was a whole lot that could cause a soul to become unstable. He'd seen firsthand the things a soul could endure, what it could withstand. It might not always come out the other side looking untouched—sometimes it came out a little scarred, other times a dark, twisted version of what it once was—but it did always come out the other side.

"Sorry, no can do, bucko."

Dean looked up as the Trickster's words broke through his thoughts. The man was shaking his head; Dean could almost swear that there was the smallest hint of an apology in the creases of his face.

"Why not?"

Dean shifted his gaze over to his little brother, his expression pinched, lying somewhere between angry and upset, like someone had just run over his dog.

"Because that's not how it works." The Trickster was leaning forward against the table, having abandoned his relaxed attitude from just minutes before. "You break it, you buy it."

Sam shook his head. "What do you mean "that's not how it works"? You can shape reality. There has to be something you can do." Dean could hear the hidden edge of desperation edging along Sam's voice and couldn't help but wonder what he'd missed in the conversation and how it took the turn it did.

The Trickster shook his head once more. "Sorry, kiddo, I could try—"

"Then do it," Sam interrupted.

" _But_ ," the Trickster started forcefully, "doing so is more likely to kill him than even begin to fix anything. His souls don't resonate properly with each other. It'd be like . . ." He paused, tapping his thumb against the table, his eyes narrowing as he searched for the right words. After a long moment he nodded and looked back to Sam. "Like taking two parts of the same book, one at chapter three and one at chapter thirteen, and trying to force them together. It'd be chaos—dissonance—and would only end up destroying the story."

Sam's mouth twisted into a frown. "So what? There's nothing we can do? You said that you came over here because you didn't want Dean"—he threw a hand toward his brother—"to blow a chunk out of the earth. So you must know of some way to stop it from happening."

The Trickster lifted his chin, pinning Sam with a long, hard gaze, causing the younger man to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Finally, his face softened a fraction. "Fine, but only because I like this world, and you two knuckleheads have grown on me . . . kinda like a bad rash."

Dean scrunched his face up, immediately trying to banish  _that_  image from his mind before it had the chance to properly develop. Sam made an expression lost somewhere between relieved and disturbed.

"Yes and no." The Trickster shifted his gaze over to Dean. "The spell used to send you back was never finished. Whoever or whatever cast it . . .my guess is they ran out of juice halfway through. You want to fix"—he gestured in Dean's direction—" _this_  mess. You need to finish the spell."

Dean tilted his head to the side, the Trickster's words catching his attention. "Wait. You . . ." Dean waved his hand in the air, looking for the right word. ". . . what,  _downloaded_  my memories? All of them. How do you not know who sent me back or the spell the used?"

The Trickster narrowed his eyes, studying Dean like Sam would . . . well, anything that can be studied. His eyes bounced around like he was sifting through information, looking for something specific. Dean had a feeling that's exactly what he was doing and had to resist the urge to fold his arms over his chest, feeling extremely exposed at the thought of it.

"There's a small part . . ." the Trickster started softly; Dean wasn't sure if he was addressing them or talking more to himself, "tucked in the back of your older soul, that is, hidden, locked away from view." He lifted his eyes up to Dean's, pulling himself out of whatever thought he'd been lost in. "Whoever cast the spell had the foresight to protect himself and, by extension, you. Unfortunately, that means unless you have an idea of the spell that was cast . . ." He let the sentence trail off.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, digging his fingertips against his temple. When the spell had been cast, he'd been well on his way to mostly dead, not that the Hollow Men would have actually killed him. They had no problem killing everyone else, his friends, family. They hated him enough to beat the holy hell out of him and leave him for dead, but whenever it came down to striking that final blow, they'd never been able to follow through. It was something they had in common and was probably the reason Cas and Sam had insisted on going with him that night. They'd been worried that just as they couldn't kill him, he wouldn't be able to kill them.

A thought sparked across Dean's mind—he couldn't believe he'd almost forgotten about it.

"Wait," he muttered as he reached into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and rooting through it till he found the much-abused folded piece of paper. He laid it down on the table, smoothing out the wrinkles before sliding it to the Trickster.

"When I woke up, in this time, this symbol stuck out in my head, separate from my memories." Dean pointed to the rough drawing of a five-pointed star inside a six-pointed star inside an eleven-pointed star inside a large circle. "I found a manuscript with the symbol a few months back. It made a reference to . . . a book or something. The words were pretty worn out." He pulled out a second piece of paper from his coat pocket, thankful that he had chosen to keep both items on his person just in case. Of course, he didn't expect that  _just in case_  to be running into and having a conversation with an archangel pretending to be a Trickster, but he was more than willing to roll with it for the moment. Especially if it got him some much-needed answers.

Sam leaned toward the paper, his eyes studying the photocopy of the manuscript Dean had "borrowed" from the library a few months back.

"Dean, this looks like it's Sumerian." Sam reached over, pulling the paper closer to him.

"Who?" Dean blinked, watching Sam closely.

"Sumerian," Sam repeated without looking up. "It's one of the oldest cultures and oldest recorded languages. We still use the calendar, time, and mathematical system they invented."

Dean gave Sam an incredulous stare. "Wow, your nerdy-ness knows no bounds."

Sam shot Dean a glance; he started to respond when something on the paper caught his attention.

"Dean," Sam started out slowly, like he didn't even want to ask the question. "Did you . . ." He pointed to a spot on the paper. "Did you write notes on and photocopy a thirteen thousand-year-old manuscript?"

Dean leaned over, inspecting the area Sam was pointing to: he had drawn a circle around the symbol and jotted down a few things in the margin before making a copy of it. "Well, I figured carrying around the manuscript itself would be kind of hard. It was all brittle, pieces kept falling off. The Kinko's copier machine almost ate it. Well, it did mostly. But luckily it wasn't until after I had gotten the copy made."

Sam's eyes bounced up, his mouth dropping open, like he wanted to say something but the words were caught in a major malfunction.

Dean was unsure why his little brother suddenly looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. "Sam?" Dean waved a hand in front of his face. "Dude, blink or something." He gestured back toward the paper. "I don't suppose your nerd-dom can read any of that?

Sam blinked twice. "Dean, you . . . I . . ." He snapped his jaw shut, shook his head, and then let out a huff of air. Sam dropped his eyes back down to the paper and shook his head. "No, I don't think there are many people who can. At least not that can really read it and understand it."

Dean pulled the paper from Sam, sliding it across the table to join the other paper. "All right, Wings. I know you can read this."

"Wings?" Sam frowned at his brother.

Dean hid a grimace as he gave Sam a sidelong glance, reminding himself for what felt like the thousandth time to watch what he said with certain things around certain people, mainly his brother. It wasn't that he didn't want to tell his brother that he was sitting across from an archangel and that angels were in fact real. His brother had faith and found hope or something in that faith. He didn't want to soil that with something as unimportant as reality, not if the faith gave his little brother some kind of solace.

Dean directed his gaze back across the table.

The Trickster looked from the first piece of paper to the copied manuscript. "Don't need to." He pushed the second paper away then tapped a finger against the first one. "Whoever it was that sent you back was into some really heavy, really old magic." His eyes crossed over toward the copied paper then back up to Dean. "There's only one book that your manuscript could be referencing. The only possible book this symbol could be in."

Dean turned his palms skyward. "You gonna tell us or just keep beating around the bush till I go nuclear?"

"The book is written in Enochian. And not the Enochian recorded by John Dee or Edward Kelley. I'm talking about the original Enochian. And whatever library or whatnot you find it in, it won't be classified as Enochian. More likely shoved back into the untranslatable sections."

Sam shifted forward in his seat. "You don't know where the book is?"

The Trickster leaned back in his seat. "Nope. That one you're gonna have to figure out yourself."

"Can you at least tell us the title so we can try and find it?"

The Trickster smiled broadly and started to open his mouth in answer.

"Or . . ." Dean held up his hand, stopping him. "Just write it down. That would be preferable." Enochian was the language of the angels. Dean rubbed his palm across a phantom pain in his ear; he distinctly remembered the feeling of his eardrums nearly breaking the last time an angel tried to speak to him in their language.

The Trickster frowned, then shrugged and wrote some symbols on the copied manuscript before shoving it back across the table. "Well, boys, this has been fun. But you know how it is—people to do, things to see." He slid out of the booth to his feet, then paused for a moment and turned back to them, jabbing a finger in Dean's direction. "Oh, congrats on the Amazon baby."

Before either of them had a chance to respond, the Trickster disappeared and time resumed once more in the diner.

* * *

"An Amazon what now?" Bobby's incredulous voice practically squeaked through the tiny speaker on Sam's phone.

"Amazon. Baby," Sam repeated. "That's what the Trickster said." Sam looked over to his brother, taking far more pleasure then he probably should at the distinctly uncomfortable look marring Dean's face as he stood at the end of Sam's bed.

Dean let out a harsh breath. "Don't you guys think there are more important things we should be discussing right now?"

Silence pervaded the room, and Sam could only imagine Bobby staring at his phone with open curiosity, wanting to know as Sam did what exactly the Trickster had been talking about.

Dean looked between the phone and Sam, his mouth working like a fish out of water, then dropped his shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sam almost felt bad; he debated for a half a moment letting Dean off the hook, but his curiosity far outweighed his sympathy.

Dean sat down on the motel bed, across from Sam, his hands lying limply between his knees. "I had a one-nighter with some chick who turned out to be an Amazon. We . . ." Dean gestured vaguely with one hand, avoiding Sam's gaze. Dean cleared his throat. "Anyways, she got . . . had a kid, who then tried to kill me, and then Sam ganked her. Are we done now?"

"A baby tried to gank you?" Bobby's voice crackled through the phone.

Dean rolled his eyes, heaving a sigh that bordered on a growl. "Yes, Bobby, a little tiny baby tried to kill me. No, man! She—she grew up into an adult, in like fruit fly time. Then she tried to kill me." Dean shoved himself off the bed and began pacing a few feet away. "Can we please focus more on the problem at hand and less on my greatest past hits?"

"All right, all right. No need to get your knickers in a twist," Bobby responded calmly. "Must be a father thing."

Sam snorted and glanced over at his brother, who was now giving both him and the phone a look that promised nothing short of a very long and very painful death. Sam let the smile slip off his face with a clearing of his throat. It was probably more prudent that they find this spell of Dean's before his brother went nuclear. Afterwards he could spend the proper amount of time trying to irritate his older brother, as was his sworn duty.

"Okay." Sam turned his attention back toward the phone. "So the Trickster said the book that has the spell we need might be stuffed away with some untranslatable texts, which actually helps quite a bit, since those tend to be kept at university libraries or private libraries. That might be our best place to start." Sam looked down at the drawing in his hand before taking a picture of it with his phone. "Bobby, I'm sending you a picture of the seal Dean drew and the title of the book the Trickster said the spell was in. Hopefully it won't be that hard to find."

There was a small pause as they waited for the email to be sent and received.

"Got it," Bobby replied. "So, this Trickster. We're just trusting him? He is, after all, a  _trickster_. They aren't exactly known for their honesty."

Sam rubbed his hand across his chin. He'd asked the same exact question of Dean shortly after they'd left the diner. "Dean said we could trust him." That had been all Dean would say; Sam could tell his brother was holding something back. He knew there were lots of things Dean was currently not telling him, and in a way he could understand. Ten years was a lot of time, a lot of history to dump on someone's lap. However,  _this_  . . . this seemed a bit odd, and Sam couldn't help but wonder what it was the Trickster had done in the future to gain his brother's trust.

"Did he happen to say why?" Bobby asked.

Sam couldn't help but snort; apparently Bobby was taking up mind reading. "No. Just that we could."

Bobby made a noise that sounded something akin to a grunt. "Speaking of which, what does Marty McFly wanna do about this whole thing."

"You mean other than try and find the book?"

"Well, that one's pretty much a given."

Sam shrugged. "He hasn't really said." Sam looked up from the phone toward his brother. "Hey, Dean—" Sam's words froze on his lips as his eyes landed on his brother on the other side of the room.

Dean stood hunched over with one hand braced against the back of a chair and the other pressed tightly against his chest. Even from across the room, Sam could clearly see sweat beading across his brother's face, as well as the breaths coming out in short, sharp gasps of air.

"Dean!" Sam jumped to his feet, dropping the phone on the floor as his feet ate up the short distance in a matter a seconds, reaching Dean just as the man's knees buckled, letting gravity do what it does best and drag him down toward the floor. Sam hooked an arm under Dean's, catching him before he could hit the floor, then manhandled him a few steps back to the bed's edge. Sam moved in front of his brother, placing his hands on either side of Dean's face; he ducked his head, trying to catch the older man's attention. "Dean. Hey, man. Look at me."

Dean's eyes bounced back and forth as if watching a scene playing out before him. Sam bit down on his bottom lip till he could taste blood welling up between his teeth. He ignored the small pain as his worry jumped up with the rate of Dean's breathing, which was bordering on just this side of hyperventilation.

"Dean!" Sam tried once more; he could feel the hunter's pulse beat an unsteady rhythm against his palms.

Sam's face folded up in worry as what sounded like a whimper followed by a sudden inhale of breath shot out from between Dean's too-pale lips. Worry then crumpled into relief as Dean dragged his eyes up, focusing on him, his breath and pulse slowing down into a normal, steadier rhythm.

"Dude." Dean tried to lean back from him a bit, his voice rough. "If you try to kiss me, I'm gonna hit you."

Sam let his head drop against his chest and his hands slide down to rest on Dean's shoulders; he took a moment to compose himself, the tension draining out of him and taking all his strength with it. He shook his head and pulled himself upright, standing in front of his brother. "Dude, what the hell was that?"

Dean shifted on the bed, sliding backwards a bit, and gave a minute shrug. "Nothing. It was nothing."

"Really?" Sam pressed. "That was nothing?" He shook his head. "Dean . . ." Sam started, but he paused when the tiny electronic sound of yelling broke through the conversation. Sam had almost forgotten that he'd still been on the phone with Bobby when he dropped the phone. He gave Dean a look that clearly conveyed that this conversation wasn't over before he moved between the two beds and scooped up the phone from the floor.

" _Sam?_ " Bobby's voice yelled through the phone, causing the speaker to crackle and drawing a grimace from Sam.

"Yeah, sorry, Bobby. We're here."

"You wanna tell me what's going on? Other than you two trying to give me a heart attack?"

"I'm not . . ." Sam looked over toward Dean. He honestly hadn't any clue what had just happened, other than it being disturbingly familiar with Dean's reaction to the spell he and Bobby had used. "Everything is okay now, Bobby. Just some technical difficulties."

There was a moment of silence before Bobby's response came through. "Uh-huh." His tone clearly conveyed the same meaning that the look Sam gave Dean did. This conversation would be revisited later.

Sam cleared his throat, moved to sit on the bed next to Dean, holding the phone slightly in front of them.

Dean slowly uncurled himself from around his chest, his eyes sliding over to Sam's, a question written in them. "Bobby was asking, other than finding this spell and completing it, what you wanna do."

"What I wanna do? I dunno. Grab a burger, maybe a beer." He paused, a roguish smile ghosting across his face. "A hot brunette with a tiny little skirt and big—"

"Down, Kirk," Bobby interrupted. "I was talking about with whatever you're trying to stop from happening in the future, ya idjit. You know, the thing you haven't actually told us about beyond 'it sucked'?"

"Oh." Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

After a long silence, Dean gave a half shrug. "At the moment there's really nothing that can be done. There are certain events that have already been changed that hopefully derail . . . uh, things."

"Like what?" Sam turned to face his brother a bit more.

Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, a thousand different emotions chasing each other across his face, making Sam wonder what it was his brother was thinking and the things he'd already changed.

Dean shook his head. "Just a few things. Some big, some small. None of which are important anymore." There was a note of finality in Dean's words that Sam recognized. It was the tone his brother used when he felt frayed and needed the current conversation shut down.

Sam swallowed thickly, giving a small nod. "All right." He licked his lips and turned back to the phone. "We should probably get some sleep. Bobby, let us know if you find anything."

"Yeah, of course," Bobby answered back. "You boys stay safe."


	16. Demons

_So they dug your grave, a_ _nd the masquerade_

_Will come calling out a_ _t the mess you made_

_Don't wanna let you down, b_ _ut I am hell bound_

_Though this is all for you, d_ _on't wanna hide the truth_

_Look into my eyes, i_ _t's where my demons hide_

_Don't get too close_

_It's dark inside_

Dean concentrated on the food in front of him, trying to ignore the not-so-subtle glances Sam kept throwing across the table between bites of whatever disgustingly healthy thing his brother had ordered. No self-respecting meal had that much green, red, or . . . _was that purple?_ Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust and took an extra-large bite of his steak and eggs as if the larger portion would help restore some of the credibility Sam's heathenistic food stole.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean watched Sam shoot a fleeting look across the table, a series of questions flying across his face like he wanted to ask something but couldn't decide what or where to start. Dean heaved a sigh, one created and perfected over many years exclusively for his brother. It was annoyance, affection, irritation, and permission all rolled into one. Of course, this Sam didn't know any of that, and it would be quite a few years before he would learn to recognize it for what it was. Till then, Dean supposed he would have to be a little more direct with his brother.

He put down his fork and gave his plate a little shove. "Sam, if you think any harder you're gonna strain something."

Sam's eyes shot up, going wide for a moment before crinkling at the corners like he'd been caught in the act of doing something he shouldn't, knew it, and wasn't ready to admit to it yet.

Dean debated between coaxing whatever was on Sam's mind out of him or just letting it be for the moment. He couldn't help but see the irony in their current circumstances: normally it was Dean who was reluctant to talk and Sam the one trying to draw things out of him. Of course, where Dean's silence was usually born of his need to play things close to the vest and protect his little brother, Sam's was born of something else entirely. Dean couldn't help but feel it was due to the revelation that his older brother was, technically, ten years older than he was supposed to be.

His primary reaction was to keep everything locked away and not talk about it, but he'd seen what secrets between him and his brother could do. He had a second chance with his little brother and wanted to make the most of it, wanted to do things right.

But at the same time he was hesitant, not because he didn't want Sam to know about what happened in the future—there were some things Dean was keen on not rehashing—but he could tell Sam everything, explain it down to the smallest detail, and Sam still would never be able to understand. Not the situations, the emotions, the impossible choices that almost ended the world—the one that did.

Indecision churned in restless waves through his mind; if he kept everything to himself, he risked damaging the very thing he was trying to protect, and he'd lose his brother's trust—a trust that felt like it was already on shaky ground. But if he told Sam, answered the questions bouncing around in that giant shag-covered head, he risked losing Sam in a different way.

He was painfully reminded of the saying damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"Sam . . ." He tilted his chin down, pinning his brother with a gaze. "Look, I know you must have a million questions rolling around in that gigantic brain of yours, all begging to be voiced."

Sam's eyebrows creased down the middle as he folded his arms across the table's surface.

Dean suppressed a wince, recognizing the defensive posture for what it was. He cleared his throat and pressed on. "And I know you're probably less than happy with the fact that I didn't tell you sooner, but, dude . . ." Dean paused to lick his lips. "You gotta give me some time to sort stuff out."

"Time?" Sam's eyebrows shot skyward. "Dean. You've been . . . here for, like, what? Six months? Six months in which you were keeping this huge secret. It didn't occur to you in all that _time_ to . . ." Sam gestured vaguely in Dean's direction. "Sort stuff out?"

"I was _trying_ to figure out the best way to tell you—"

"How 'bout, 'Hey, Sam, by the way, I'm from two thousand seventeen and technically killed the younger version of myself in order to fix something that went pretty wrong in the future.'"

Dean curled his fingers into a tight fist on top of the table as annoyance flared through him. "Yeah," he bit out. "Because I'm sure that would have gone over real well. That's totally _not_ a one-way ticket to the funny farm. And, for the record, I didn't kill my younger self by traveling through time."

Sam threw his hands out wide. "That's what you said at Bobby's."

"That's not—" Dean thumped his knuckles against the table. "That's not what I meant. I said we're both in here. Parts of the future version of me and parts of the past version of me. Pieces of both of us are still here."

"But there are other pieces that are gone—forever."

"Maybe."

"How is that not . . . ?" Sam splayed his fingers wide against the air before letting them drop heavily onto the table.

"Because, it's—" Dean bit off his retort. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. This conversation was quickly spiraling out of his control. He let out a deep breath, trying to tap down on his own short-temperedness. "Dude, what is your problem?" He expected anger from Sam, had been surprised thus far that his brother seemed to be taking everything in stride, but he couldn't hide his shock at the accusation in Sam's words nor the bitterness hidden behind them.

Sam rolled his lips then shook his head jerkily. "Just forget it."

Dean let out a mirthless laugh. "Forget it? No way. Sam, I know you—"

"That!" Sam snapped, loud enough to draw the attention of nearby customers while cutting Dean off mid-sentence. "That's the problem."

"What?"

"You know me. You know everything about me. Things I don't even know about me." Sam jabbed his finger against the table as he spoke. "But I don't know anything about you."

A crease worked its way across Dean's forehead. "Dude." He spread his hands. "I'm your brother."

"No." Sam shook his head. "You're not my brother. You're some guy I don't know wearing my brother's face."

Dean jerked his head back, his mouth falling open as something sharp cracked across his chest, something that had nothing to do with unstable souls. He snapped his jaw shut. A similar conversation echoed in the back of Dean's mind as a cacophony of emotions rolled through him; two distinct versions of himself warred for emotional dominance. He didn't know which side to fall toward. Conflicted within himself, he fell back to the one familiar emotion churning on either side.

Anger.

"Fine." Dean slammed his palms against the table and pushed himself roughly out of his seat, throwing a glare toward his brother as he spun on his heel . . .

. . . right into a tiny waitress and her very big, very loaded tray.

Dean jumped back in surprise, his hip slamming against the metal-rimmed table as he suddenly found himself covered in an assortment of breakfast foods and syrup.

"Oh my god! I am so sorry!" a young waitress cried in panic, dropping the spilt tray onto the table as she grabbed a bundle of napkins and tried to wipe the mess off Dean's shirt and pants.

Dean held his sticky maple syrup-covered hands away from his body, his face twisting in a grimace as a drop of the thick condiment dripped from his hair onto his nose.

"It's okay," he tried to reassure her. He attempted to grab her arms to stop her frantic cleaning, which was really not doing anything more than smearing the mess further, but just as one of her hands pressed against his chest she looked up into his face and seemed to freeze completely still.

Dean blinked, unsure of what had caused her to go still. "Uh, miss?"

The waitress's face turned beat red, and she jumped up and back from Dean. "Oh my god." She covered her mouth with one hand. "I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to stare!" She tugged nervously at the bottom of her shirt. "I'm so sorry!"

Dean pressed down on the anger he still felt toward his brother along with the added annoyance of being covered in sticky substances and painted a roughish smile across his face. "It's okay. I have that affect on women sometimes."

Her face turned a deep crimson color as she tugged once more on her shirt. "I'm sorry, you don't . . . your meals are on the house. No charge. I'm so sorry."

Dean smiled and reassured her it was all right—not that he was going to turn down a free meal—and carefully moved around her, heading toward the bathrooms without so much as a glance back at his brother.

Dean pushed the bathroom door open, wrinkling his nose at the sticky mess coating him. How much syrup had been on that tray anyways? It covered his hair, hands, and entire front half. He licked his lips—at least it didn't taste bad. There were worse things he'd been covered in, some of which he didn't even want to think about.

Dean brushed the thought aside, turning on the tap and washing his hands as best he could before sticking his whole head under the tepid water. It wasn't the most efficient way to clean, but there was no way in hell he was getting in the Impala covered in someone's breakfast. That just wasn't happening.

He was halfway done when the dull pain in his chest suddenly jumped into overdrive, flying right past pain and slamming full-force into sheer agony. His knees buckled, causing his chin to bounce off the hard porcelain as he made a blind scramble to catch himself before he hit the ground. He grasped at the sink, holding himself somewhere between a stand and a kneel as he tried to ride the waves of pain that ripped through his chest.

As the pain died back down to a manageable level, granting Dean with the ability to breathe once more, he adjusted his grip and dragged himself up till he was leaning over the sink.

Something tickled at Dean's nose, making him twitch and sniffle. When the feeling persisted, he scrubbed a hand roughly against the offending irritation. He pulled his hand away, pausing mid-motion when a bright red smear across the back of his hand caught his attention. "That can't be a good sign."

* * *

Sam threw a terse glance across the narrow area between him and the time-traveling brother currently occupying the front passenger seat of the Impala. When Dean had finally emerged from the bathroom, he headed straight for the diner's exit, popped open the trunk of the Impala long enough to fish out a clean undershirt and button up, threw the keys at Sam, and parked himself in the passenger seat, all without so much as a grunt in Sam's general direction.

The most he'd managed to pry from Dean in the last three hours of driving was a slight cringe when Sam turned on the radio and The Fray's "How to Save a Life" filled the otherwise awkward silence. The rest of the trip thus far Dean had spent with his shoulders hunched in, arms wrapped around his chest as he leaned against the passenger door in a way that had Sam wanting to ensure it was locked.

Sam didn't need to be an expert on this new version of his brother to know the man was less than happy with him. That was fine by him—the feeling was mutual . . . mostly . . . sort of . . . a little bit?

He wasn't entirely sure what he was feeling; his thoughts felt like a runaway train that he couldn't catch up with and tripped him up every time he got close to something. He felt angry that Dean had kept something this big from him, felt a loss for the brother that'd come and got him from school. That was now gone—forever. He felt judged for things he hadn't done; irritated that this Dean knew more about him than he knew about himself; guilt over the things Dean went through in the future, things he knew nothing about and couldn't even imagine; and jealousy over the person that went through it all with him, that was by his side till the end.

Worse, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with any of this. It was more than a little bizarre to miss a brother sitting next to him and to feel envious over . . . well, _himself_ , the future version of himself.

Sam cast a glance across the narrow area between him and his brother. He hadn't meant to tell Dean that he wasn't his brother. He was his brother— _is_ his brother. He saw it in the small things, the familiar facial tics and expressions—the little things that had originally given Dean away also assured Sam that this man was his brother. Just . . . different, older, wary.

Sam leaned forward and shut off the radio, letting the thick silence once more fill the space between them. "Look, man." Sam paused to wet his lips. "I shouldn't have said what I did."

Dean didn't so much as glance over; he remained still, his forehead resting against the passenger side window, a short, crisp questioning grunt the only acknowledgement that he even heard Sam speak.

The response was a bit surprising. Dean liked to sweep things under the rug, move on from arguments or disagreements quickly with as little talking as possible. He was supposed to tell Sam not to worry about it and that everything's fine, not throw more attitude into the fire.

So Sam was forced a step further. "I'm trying to apologize here, Dean. I said some things that were really . . ." He couldn't quite find the right word, because he didn't necessarily feel that anything said was unfair or undeserved.

Dean wasn't being even a little helpful, wasn't supplying the characteristic and expected snappy, sarcastic options for his brother to choose from. _Things that were really what, Sammy? Stupid? Dickish?_ No, he just sat there silently, waiting for Sam to sort it out himself. Sam almost had to wonder if it wasn't better when Dean was pretending.

It wasn't fair. Sam was traversing new and dangerous terrain, and Dean knew how to maneuver his little brother through a thousand different scenarios Sam hadn't traveled yet, scenarios he may never experience now. The least he could do was throw him a bone here.

As if hearing his thoughts, Dean shifted against his seat, pushing himself more upright, his eyes tracking across the car to Sam. "You mean the part where you said we weren't brothers?"

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line—not quite the bone he was looking for. "Dean—"

"Don't worry about it, Sam." There was no sincerity in Dean's voice, but there wasn't any real anger in it either. "Not the first time you've said it."

Sam's eyes shot over to Dean. A question jumped into his mind for a split second before exasperation and anger plowed it down. Dean was upset at him, punishing him for something he hadn't technically done. Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel, suddenly a lot less sorry for anything unfair he might have said to the older hunter. He turned his hot gaze over to his brother. "Dude, that's not—"

"We heading somewhere specific, or you just looking to put miles between us and the Trickster?"

Sam sputtered, the abrupt change in conversation catching him off guard. "What?"

Dean gestured toward the front window.

Annoyance rolled through Sam at the hunter's tactics, at his decision to end the conversation like Sam wasn't allowed a choice in the matter. Fine, Sam fumed internally, if that's how Dean wanted to play it. Sam kept his eyes forward, focused on the road. "Baton Rouge."

Dean dipped his head, giving Sam an inquisitive look before rolling his eyes and asking, "Because you have a hankering for some Cajun cooking?"

"Bobby called this morning while you were in the shower."

"That was hours ago. You didn't feel the need to tell me sooner?"

Sam shot a heated glare toward his brother. "Oh, that's rich coming from you."

Dean's eyebrows snapped together in a glare of his own. "Is that what this is? You're gonna stop sharing information because I didn't know how to tell you something that you probably wouldn't have believed anyway?"

Sam rolled his lips against his teeth. Part of him wanted to let Dean think that, if only for some childish retaliation, but instead let out a huff of air. "No, Dean. I meant to tell you at breakfast."

"You told me a lot of things at breakfast. That wasn't one of them."

"You wanna talk about it?" Sam retorted, jerking his gaze across the car. "Because you're the one that changed the subject."

"No, I want you to pay attention to the damn road." Dean threw a hand out toward the road that was drifting to the right of the car.

Sam jerked the wheel of the Impala to straighten her out.

"And tell me what the hell Bobby wanted."

Sam twisted his hands against the wheel until his knuckles were white from the pressure. Silence sat between them, oppressive and suffocating, wedging a physical barrier in between them. It stretched on, becoming unbearable before Dean finally broke it with a tense question.

"Sam? What did Bobby want?"

Sam took a moment, making a physical effort to relax the white-knuckled grip he had on the steering wheel before answering the older hunter. "Bobby found the book."

Dean's eyes widened. "Really? That was quick." He pressed a palm against his chest, a wince crossing his face. "I'm guessing it's in Baton Rouge?"

"Yeah." Sam rubbed a thumb across his forehead. "It's in a private library just outside Baton Rouge. Some really old family owns it, the Durant family. Bobby didn't know much about them but gave me the number of a contact in Baton Rouge that may know more."

Dean shifted his head to the side. "Like a hunter-type contact?"

Sam's eyebrows drew together. "Yeah, why?"

Dean shrugged, letting his hand fall back to his lap. "Just wondering."

Sam clenched his jaw. He knew that tone—there was more to what Dean was saying, but, as was quickly becoming the norm, the older man was keeping it to himself.

 _So much for being partners_ , Sam thought bitterly.

* * *

Dean shut the door of the Impala, pausing for a moment to study the small shop tucked into a corner on Baton Rouge's University Lake. He looked down at the address hastily scribbled in Sam's handwriting then back up at the sign that read "FluDoW Souvenir Shop _._ "

The store's windows were decorated in swirling designs and random shapes that to the random tourist might appear as just that: decorations. Dean, however, recognized them for what they were: protection seals and warding spells, powerful ones at that.

Dean stuffed the paper in his pocket and shoved the glass door open, a small bell ringing as he crossed over the threshold. Incense hung so heavily in the air that it coated his tongue and lodged its way in the back of his throat. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the taste, suddenly regretting his decision to send Sam to the library while he paid a visit to Bobby's contact.

After the argument at the diner and the following one in the car, Sam had been all too eager for them to split up for a bit, and Dean wasn't going to press for anything else. Maybe a little breathing room would do them some good—clear the air, or at least their heads, though Dean wasn't sure time was going to be the best remedy for his head. He hadn't meant to get that angry at Sam, certainly hadn't meant to further the argument along, but . . .

Ever since he'd received the Mark of Cain, Dean had been quick to anger and quick to go for the kill. Once the Mark was removed, the bloodlust went with it, but the anger had stayed. It wasn't as bad, more like a residual feeling that would pop up unexpectedly. He'd learned how to control enough to the point that it wasn't even really an issue, but now it was like the anger of his future self was mixing with the lack of control his younger self had, and it made for a rather explosive short temper.

Dean pushed the thought to the side. There wasn't much he could do about it at the moment, and he had more important things to worry about. _One thing at a time._

He weaved his way through the small shop, which was blessedly empty of customers at the moment. Though, given its location, Dean wasn't surprised: it was pretty hidden away from the normal flow of tourists, and, all things considered, he had a feeling that was intentional. Dean reached the counter just as an older man, maybe late forties with a very pronounced limp, appeared from the curtained-off back room. He looked like he may have been once well toned and fit but had since let the muscles fade.

"Aw, good afternoon!" He clapped together well-worked calloused hands. "Welcome to FluDoW Souvenir Shop! Is there anything in particular you're looking for, or just browsing?"

"Bobby Singer sent me. Said you might know something about the Durant family?"

Surprise flashed across the man's face, chased closely by something Dean could swear looked like a cross between guilt and anxiousness, but it was quickly smothered by an easy smile and an extended hand.

"Ah, Winchester, right?"

Dean nodded, taking the man's hand in a firm handshake. "Yeah, Dean."

"Ethan Pierrick." Ethan leaned to the side, looking behind Dean, a frown flashing across his face. "I heard you Winchesters usually come in pairs?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a small nod. "My brother is just taking care of some other stuff."

"Ah." Ethan smiled widely. "But he's in town, yes?"

Dean's expression hardened, his fingers unconsciously tightening their grip around Ethan's hand before releasing it. A shiver rolled its way down Dean's spine—something about the man put his teeth on edge. His instincts told him not to trust him, that something was wrong, but the feeling was in direct conflict with the knowledge that Bobby had given them the man's name and said he was on the level.

Dean trusted Bobby implicitly.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. Maybe he was too suspicious of people—living through the end of the world a few times could do that to a person. Dean cast the thought aside, turning his attention back to the shopkeeper in front of him. "Bobby said you were the local expert around here?"

Ethan bobbed his head. "Yup, moved in here about . . . oh, ten or so years ago after a Kludde took out half my leg on a hunt."

Dean blinked, jutting his chin out. "A what, now?"

"Kludde." Ethan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "A rather malicious spirit, looks like a winged dog with blue flames surrounding it. Though, according to the lore, it can take other forms. Nasty son of a bitch either way."

Dean pressed his lips into a thin line. "I'm, uh . . ." He cleared his throat. "Sorry to hear that." He grimaced at his own stiff reply; Sam was so much better at the sympathy crap. It wasn't that Dean didn't care or have sympathy for the man getting his leg ripped off—he was just crap at expressing it. He also had other things trying to steal his attention, like the hot pain that kept slicing across his chest.

The man shrugged a shoulder. "Well, there are worse ways to be shoved out of the hunting game. And I have my shop, allows me to help other hunters with hard-to-find items."

Dean glanced down at the counter to a small display of potions labeled "Love Potion Number 6" and "Red Hot." Dean wasn't sure if it was a sauce or a potion.

Ethan followed Dean's gaze then let out a chuckle. "Oh, that's just for the occasional tourist that wanders in. All the real stuff is kept in the back."

"Uh-huh." Dean twisted his wrist, glancing at his watch. "Speaking of helping out hunters, any information you got that can help us out?"

Ethan frowned, his hand reaching up to rub his chin. "Mmm, there isn't much to tell. They're an old but private family. Have a hand in almost every major business in town. Don't really see much of them aside from Thomas and Jade."

"Thomas and Jade?"

Ethan nodded. "Mm, they handle all public relations for the family, manage the businesses when needed."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't seem weird to you?"

Ethan raked his fingers through his thinning hair. "Maybe," he said slowly then shrugged. "But you know how old rich families can be . . ." He paused a beat then added at Dean's blank look, "Eccentric?"

"Ah."

"Why are you so interested in them? Other than having more money than they know what to do with, they're pretty par for the course."

Dean hesitated for a moment. "We're just investigating some stuff that seemed to have a connection to the family." Bobby may have vouched for the guy, but that didn't mean Dean was just going to share information willingly. He'd been screwed over too many times for that.

Ethan nodded, seemingly willing to except the vague answer. "Well, good luck with your investigation. And—" He hesitated for a moment.

Dean caught the look from earlier flashing across the older man's face: guilt and anxiety mixed together. He couldn't help but feel his stomach twist.

Ethan cleared his throat, his expression laxing once more into an easier smile. "Be careful—you never know what surprises Baton Rouge might hold." The man nodded once then turned quickly, disappearing into the shop's backroom before Dean had a chance to utter any kind of response.

He debated internally for a moment, wanting to follow him to ask what the hell that meant, but decided against it. The incense in the shop was making his stomach roll, and he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to check on his little brother.

Dean slid behind the wheel of his car, wasting little time before peeling out of the parking lot and flipping his phone open at the same time. His eyes bounced between the road and his phone as he sent his brother the text: _Where are you?_

Dean fidgeted nervously as he waited for the return text, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding when a _ding_ lit up his phone.

_Motel._

Dean flipped the phone shut. He was sure Sam was fine, but there was an itch in the back of his mind that wouldn't be satisfied until he could confirm with his eyes that his brother was okay.

He swiftly pulled into the parking lot, sliding the car into park, and pushed the door open. He paused long enough to grab the duffle he neglected to take in earlier from the backseat before heading to their rented room.

Dean closed the old, beaten motel door behind him. His eyes swept across the room, stopping once they hit his little brother, who was sprawled out comfortably on the far bed, laptop resting on his legs with a mess of papers pooled around him.

Satisfied that the gut feeling that warned him Sam was in danger was wrong, Dean paused for a moment to let the blessedly working AC wash over him. He'd forgotten how humid and unbearable Louisiana heat could be in the back half of July.

"You want me to give you some alone time?"

Dean pried his eyes open, sparing his brother a dirty look before peeling off his button up. He needed a nice cool shower and a beer and food. Maybe not in that order. He sat heavily on his bed and began to unlace his boots.

"Bobby's friend have any useful information?" Sam prodded carefully.

Dean sat up straight and lifted his eyes skyward. "Not particularly." He went over the conversation in his head once more. It had mostly been a waste of time. He shifted his gaze to Sam. "Just some names. A Jade and Thomas who are apparently the public faces for the family. Nothing entirely useful."

Dean finished unlacing his boots and kicked them off, letting them lie where they landed. "You find anything on this Dewpoint family?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Durant. And actually I did." He turned one of the papers on the bed toward Dean and pointed to it. "According to this the estate was built in sixteen eighty-three and then later remolded in nineteen twenty-nine to include the building of a new structure in the back of the property."

Dean pushed himself back to his feet with a small groan before meandering over toward Sam's bed. He leaned forward, snatching up the paper. It was a blurry black-and-white aerial map of a large, extensive estate. "That's fascinating. Truly." He dropped the paper back onto Sam's bed. "How does that help us?"

"Despite the estate belonging to the Durant family since it was first built, any renovations and construction projects still require a building permit, which means—"

"There should be a copy of a blueprint at the public works office." Dean looked down at the paper with a nod. He then cocked his head to the side. "You think the building they added in the back could be the private library?"


	17. Dangerous Game

_You stand before me_

_Now we stare eye to eye_

_Before another second clicks away, one of us will die_

_You reach for your metal as I reach for mine_

_The sound of bullets flying through the air is followed by a cry_

Dean couldn't see anything. A thick inky blackness surrounded him; it swallowed up all light, leaving nothing in its wake.

Dean had never feared the darkness. He'd been cautious of it, wary, respected the dangers it held, but he never truly feared it. He knew, better than most, what the darkness held, the things that lurked just out of sight. From a young age he'd been taught how to protect against them, trained on how to kill them, things that had never been more than mere fantasy for others his age.

But this wasn't like that.

This wasn't fantasy. This wasn't the darkness twisted into children's fairy tales, the ploy of shadows and flight of imagination running untamed. It wasn't the darkness that was overcome by strength, will, and a pure heart, nor was it the darkness that moved silently through the night, hunting and preying on those who proved to be weaker, those who couldn't defend themselves.

This was suffocating, stifling, stealing away everything he thought and felt, stripping what he knew and who he was until nothing but a pain driven to his deepest foundations was left behind. It was like a railroad spike pounding mercilessly through the very part of Dean that was _Dean_ , shattering it like delicate ice crystals into millions of pieces so small there would be no putting it back together.

_Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there._

God, he'd been so young. They both had. He didn't know then how wrong he was, that beyond the things they knew were out there in the dark was _this_. Was THEM.

Born of the world's first sin.

It was dark and empty, devoid of anything resembling life. It was simply _there_ , burning cold and heavy and with malicious purpose. It pressed in from all sides, prickling at his skin, slithering its way into the workings of his lungs, traveling through the blood in his veins, twisting and crunching bone and pervading his very essence until it corded seamlessly with the darkness that existed within his own soul.

The darkness was all around him, concealing, shifting, and distorting the world beyond its reach, a dead world that was forever gone, buried under the rubble of faith, security, and hope, of anything resembling safe.

The darkness was oppressive and heavy, pushing him into the earth and whatever lay beneath with the force of a weight no man was ever meant to carry. A weight that none before him, nor those that followed after, would even carry.

They'd torn apart almost everything he had, everything he was, stood for, had been, and could never hope to be. They took his world by the seams and pulled until the tattered remains of what once was and what could never be were all that was left.

Because this, if anything, was personal.

But he wouldn't die—not by their hands, not directly. They broke, and they carved, and they shattered things that were never meant to be shattered, but still he breathed, mostly. He wouldn't die because they couldn't kill him, and they hated him for it. He knew it in the same way he knew they wouldn't kill him. _She_ was still connected to them and, by extension, to him. She created them but favored him, forbade them from killing him.

That's why they hated him, why they wanted him dead, why they could never— _would_ never—make that final strike. Though, it wasn't for a lack of trying.

He thought he knew Hell before he knew them, thought he'd intimately visited every stop all the way to the end of the line, a full spectrum of the worst pains imaginable, experienced over and over on the rack.

A lack of imagination on his part.

He quickly learned that there were levels of torture and agony that went so much further, deeper than anything he'd ever experienced or even thought possible. And they crammed every single one of them down his throat, then crushed it all into tiny shards that tore him apart from the inside, just for good measure.

Each swallow and rasp of breath tore through him like jagged pieces of glass ripping through him, except it wasn't glass: it was bone, shattered and broken, floating between and pressing against places in his chest that bone shouldn't be. His breath skipped across his lips, catching in his throat as he gagged on the thick smell of death and blood that drenched his darkened prison.

His shoulders burned, muscles stretched beyond their limits by the immeasurable hours—days—that they'd been pulled taut over his head, his weight resting on nothing but the tips of his toes and his bound wrists. The position choked off his air, added extra pressure on his broken chest, and reduced his air intake to thin slipstream.

He could hear them shifting around in the dark, could feel the intent of their next act slithering across his consciousness before they had a chance to make it. A soul-chilling cold brushed across his bruised chest, stopping for a short moment before slicing deep into the space between his broken ribs. He tried to scream, but it was caught in his throat, leaving him choking and gasping as the cold turned into a hot, searing pain.

Through the darkness and icy claws, the strangled breaths and burning pain, Dean heard a voice, panicked and desperate, cutting through the growing haze.

Dean's eyes snapped open. He gasped and choked on air as it cut against the back of his throat; something heavy pressed against his chest, forcing him down, trapping him under its weight. Dean planted one hand on the soft surface under him and threw his other hand out, making a clumsy and uncoordinated attempt to knock the pressure away from him.

Something warm caught his wrist, and the weight against his chest increased, pinning him down, cutting off his escape.

A familiar voice cut its way over the rushing noise pounding against his ears.

"—dude, calm down. It's okay."

 _Sam._ The voice belonged to his brother. Dean blinked rapidly as the dark images took their time in melting away, leaving an old motel room and the blurry image of a very anxious brother in its wake.

Dean was no stranger to nightmares, but this hadn't been a normal type of nightmare. It wasn't the type you woke up from thinking, Oh, thank God that wasn't real. It was, instead, the type you woke up from, clothes plastered to your skin, your heart and breath racing each other toward a finish line that didn't exist. It was the type of nightmare you woke up from knowing the reality of what happened was just as bad, if not worse.

"Dean?" Sam was leaning over him; he reached out, wrapping long fingers around Dean's shoulder.

Dean jumped, startled by the contact. He was unsure when Sam had released his wrist. A small wave of guilt swam across his mind when a look of hurt filled Sam's face, but he couldn't help it, even if he had the energy to try. All he could focus on was how close his brother was, how he was blocking his escape path, how small and claustrophobic the room felt.

Sam squeezed his shoulder gently. "Just breath, man. You're okay. It's just us."

Dean took a moment to do just that, latching onto Sam's voice to ground himself in the here and now, remind himself that the walls weren't closing in and that he wasn't stuck in some tiny room wishing for a death that would never come. He forced in a few deep breaths, letting them drag against his raw throat, the pain grounding him further, then pressed his hands against the lumpy mattress, levering himself against Sam's hands into a sitting position. Sweat beaded across his forehead; he swallowed convulsively as his stomach rebelled against the memories that seared through his dreams. He was not gonna lose his dinner over something that happened years ago.

Sam let his hands drop away. He sank onto the bed, his hip pressing lightly against his brother's leg. "Dean . . ."

"'m fine." He dug his knuckles against his eyes, forcing the last lingering remnants of the nightmare from his vision.

"Fine?" Sam shook his head. "I don't know if the meaning of 'fine' changes in the next ten years, but you are not fine. People who are fine don't—" He pressed clenched fists against his thighs as he looked away. He shook his head once more then turned back to his brother, pinning him down with a watery gaze. "Dean, you were barely breathing . . . and the sounds you were making . . . Dean, it sounded like you were being tortured or something."

Dean dropped his gaze to his lap, finding the threads of his blanket particularly interesting.

Sam shifted on the bed, pulling one leg up onto the bed to face his brother fully. "Dean, you weren't . . . I mean, you never . . ."

Dean let out a slow, deep breath, silently relishing in the ability to do so. This was one of those thousand and three things he didn't exactly know how to tell his brother about. A large part of him didn't really want to—there was too much story, too many things that couldn't be expressed with words alone. "Sam . . ." Dean started out, lifting his head to lean back against the headboard.

Sam's forehead creased deeply. "Dean, what happened in the future? How did everything . . ." He trailed off, pressing his lips into a thin white line.

Dean shifted himself higher up on the bed. A shiver traveled through him as the cold air from the AC rolled over his sweat-soaked shirt. He debated on the best way to answer Sam's question; he'd prefer to say nothing, but it was clear Sam wouldn't let settle for nothing.

A faint memory flashed through his mind. "All right." Dean rubbed a hand across his mouth. Maybe, just this once, honesty was the best policy. "I went to Hell. Jump-started the apocalypse. You slept with a demon. Let Lucifer out of his cage. I had pizza with Death. You let the devil possess you so we could shove him back into his cage. Then you came back from Hell. But without a soul. We worked with the King of Hell for a bit. Killed Eve, the mother of all monsters. Then Cas brought in a bunch of Leviathans from Purgatory. Cas and I then got stuck in Purgatory via exploding Dick. You hit a dog. Then underwent a series of trials in an attempt to close the gates of Hell. Which almost killed you. I met Cain, received his mark. Became a demon, Knight of Hell. Got better. Killed Death, then unleashed a darkness upon the world that destroyed everything."

Sam tilted his head to the side, then narrowed his eyes. Dean could see his brother possessing the information before the younger man gave out a huff and shoved off the bed.

"You know, it's almost comforting." Sam shook his head, annoyance lacing its way through his voice.

"What is?" Dean squinted his eyes through the dark room, feeling as he missed the punchline somewhere.

"Ten years older." Sam shoved a finger in Dean's direction. "And you're still not funny."

"What are you talking about? I'm hilarious." Dean painted a smirk across his face. Sometimes the truth was so preposterous that it made the best cover story.

"Dean." Sam splayed his hands wide, and Dean could tell the kid was getting ready for a long tirade.

"Oh, God, we're not gonna hug or anything, are we?" Dean swung his legs over the bed.

"What?"

Dean threw a glance at the clock in between their beds then continued on before his brother had a chance to recover the conversation. "Come on. We have a library to break into.

* * *

"The woods are lonely, dark and deep, fuckin' humid, and filled with murderous insects," Dean grumbled mournfully under his breath. He slapped a hand against his neck, sending yet another bug to its death.

"What?" Sam looked back over his shoulder, squinting through the darkness to his brother.

"Nothing," Dean snapped, grimacing as he pulled his boot out of the thick muck of the forest floor.

They'd gone to the Public Works building earlier that afternoon and, thanks to some fast talking and fake badges, were able to score the files for the Durant Estate. It was roughly twenty miles outside of Baton Rouge, surrounded by thick forest and a deep river. The river ran through the estate and up alongside the library that sat at the back of the property. It had been good news because they could follow the river right up to the library, using it and the forest for cover.

In theory.

In reality, they were still following the plan, but with the added bonus of the river being deeper and rougher than expected and the bank—thanks to some recent storms—being muddy and lose. On top of all that, the air was suffocatingly humid and thick with tiny insects out for blood.

"I still don't see why we couldn't sneak in through, I dunno, a dry non-bug-infested path."

"You mean up the driveway in plain sight of any security?" Sam rolled his eyes, though the action was swallowed up by the night. "Yeah, that's an awesome plan, Dean. We'll just call that plan F for fu—"

"At least we wouldn't be up to our knees in mud," Dean cut him off before he could finish the sentence. No sooner had the words passed his lips than a chunk of earth gave way under Dean's boot. He scrambled to find some kind of purchase as his feet continued their downward slide through the mud. His knees hit the ground as his fingers wrapped themselves around a thick sapling, halting his descent toward the flooded river. "Come on, man." Dean used the tree to lever himself back onto his feet. "These are my good pants."

"Dean, you don't have any good pants." Sam paused, turning back to look at his brother. "Did you bitch this much in the future, or is this some kind of side effect?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. Sam had been on just this side of bitchy since they'd gotten up that evening. His bitchiness was cranking up Dean's own irritation to about a twelve. "Bite me, Francis."

Sam pulled his head back. "And risk catching something? Pass." He turned away and continued the trek, following the river as it bent toward the large private library.

Dean glared at the back of his brother's head, weighing the pros and cons of beating his brother over the head with his flashlight. Of course, then he'd have to lug his giant over-sized ass back to the car. Could just leave him here in the middle of the wood-infested bug-pocalypse. _They will never find his body._

The thought was rapidly becoming more tempting as the night wore on. It was quickly becoming clear that not only was Sam upset, but it was directed at him. "Dude, are you mad at me?"

"Not everything is about you, Dean," Sam threw over his shoulder without breaking stride.

"That would be in direct conflict with my assumption that everything _is_ about me." They had apparently skipped right past mad and gone full-steam into pissed. Dean silently rewound the last few hours in his head, trying to figure out what it was he'd done to earn his brother's current ire. _Let's see, woke up, put pants on, put shirt on, put boots on, put on button up shirt._ Dean frowned. Unless Sam was taking particular offense to his choice in clothing, he couldn't see anything that would have set Sam off.

There was, of course, the conversation from the day before, the one in the car . . . and in the diner, a conversation that still was rubbing Dean the wrong way, but it was easier to just shove those thoughts in a tiny little box and ignore them for now, or forever, whichever never came.

"I'm not mad," Sam grumbled, low enough that Dean almost lost the comment in the rushing sounds of the river.

"Really?" Dean picked up his pace till he was at the younger Winchester's side. "'Cause you're doing an incredible impression of you when you're pissed."

Sam stopped so suddenly and spun around that Dean barely had enough time to keep from barreling into him. The younger hunter lifted a hand, opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut again. He shook his head and turned to walk away.

Dean grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back toward him. "Come on, man, spill. You know you want to, and your head's gonna explode if you don't." Dean knew this probably wasn't the best time or place to hash anything out, but an angry Sammy tended to be irrational, and he liked his Sammys rational, especially when they were going into a place they knew little about.

Sam rolled his lips against his teeth then heaved a sigh. "I just wish you'd be honest with me, man."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "You lost me."

Sam raked a hand through his hair. "Look, I know there are some things in the future you might not want to talk about, but . . ." He shrugged lightly.

"But?" Dean prodded lightly.

"Look, just don't lie about it, okay?"

"Lie?" Dean tilted his head.

Sam jutted his chin out. "Yeah. Come on, man. You become a . . . what did you call it? A Knight of Hell? _I_ sleep with a demon?" He shook his head. "A demon? Seriously? That's not even funny, much less believable."

Dean shrugged. The irony of his brother's statement was so potent that he wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. "It's a little funny." Though not in the way his brother was thinking.

Sam rolled his lips into a frown. "If you're gonna lie, the very least you can do is make it vaguely believable."

They stood in silence for a long moment before Dean broke it with a slightly mirthful tone. "God has a sister that eats souls."

Sam rolled his eyes, throwing his arms up in disgust and stomping off, up the river's edge.

Dean couldn't help the smile that cracked along his face. _It was a little funny._

* * *

A few hours later found Sam and Dean standing in front of a large building. Dean let his eyes drift up the dark red brick wall that made up the two-story library. It wasn't overly impressive looking: large bay windows on the second story, some ornate designs around them and along the roof. It was far simpler than Dean had imagined it would be.

Though the most curious part of the building . . . Dean let his eyes drop down toward the base of the structure. "Sam, when you said the building was on the river, I didn't think you actually meant _on_ the river." Dean gestured to the two arches that met at the center of the river, providing the needed support at the building's center. He was a little surprised how low the building sat to the river—there was maybe a half foot clearance between the rushing water and the library's underside.

Sam spared Dean a small shrug as he headed around the side of the building toward the entrance.

Dean gave one last look toward the river then turned to follow his brother. Sam was standing with his arms folded across his chest, his eyes narrowed and eyebrows squished together as he studied the door.

"What's wrong?" Dean followed the younger man's gaze.

"You see something missing?" Sam gestured to the thick oak door.

Dean stepped forward, examining the door for a few moments, then shook his head and looked back over to his brother. "No welcome party?"

"No security system."

"Oh." Dean glanced back at the door. "Well, the building is in the back of the property, surrounded by thick, swampy, bug-infested forest only an idiot would be brave enough to travel through. Maybe they're not worried about someone breaking in?"

Sam rolled his lips against his teeth, clearly not happy with the answer. Dean couldn't blame him—there seemed to be a serious lack of security around the whole estate, and it brought back the uneasy feeling he had earlier at the souvenir shop. Dean curled his fingers into a tight fist as a sharp flash of pain stole across his chest, a reminder that they were on a strict timeline.

"Sam." He winced, hating how he could hear pain lacing his voice. Dean cleared his throat and tried again, forcing a lighter tone. "We gonna go in or wait till my soul explodes?"

Sam sighed softly then wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, turning it a bit. He paused and gave Dean a raised eyebrow when the door pushed open without any resistance.

Dean offered no response as he shouldered past Sam into the library, flicking his flashlight on as he made a visual sweep around the wide space of the library's first floor. Much like the exterior, the first floor was simple, sparse of any real decorations. A plush red carpet stretched across the room, framing a thick glass floor, running down the center of the room, allowing a view of the river rushing below. A staircase ran along the wall next to the door before turning along the back corner of the room and disappearing to the next floor.

Dean tapped a hand against Sam's shoulder and gestured to the staircase, then started for them, trusting that his brother would follow behind. He paused at the top of the staircase where the exterior and first floor were simple in design. The second floor was the polar opposite. There was a large bay window on each of the four walls; lined in between the windows were large ornate bookcases that reached up to the ceiling. Smaller four-foot high bookcases created an inner frame around the room, leaving an opening to walk between in front of each window. Inside the inner bookcases was a long table that stood in front of a large opening in the center of the room, overlooking the glass floor and rushing river of the bottom level.

Dean felt Sam come to a stop next to him; he looked over at his brother then pointed a flashlight at the high vaulted ceiling where modern oil lamps hung from silver chains at seemingly random intervals and heights throughout the room. "That's gotta be some kind of fire hazard."

Sam shrugged. "I'm sure they're high enough to be safe when they're lit."

Dean squinted at his brother. He wasn't sure if Sam really believed that or if the kid was still in a mood and just wanted to be disagreeable. He shook his head, panning his flashlight around the room. "You think they have some kind of card catalog system, or should we just check in the Really Old As Fuck section?"

Sam rubbed his thumb across his brow, his eyes traveling with his own beam of light, stopping at the bookcases on the far wall. "I'll start on the far wall. Why don't you start over here? We can work our way round." He stepped away, heading to the other side without waiting for an answer.

Dean shook his head. He couldn't help but be amused at his brother's annoyance at him. It wasn't that he took pleasure in Sam's misery—he did; it was his job and right as a sibling to do so—but at this particular moment his amusement was wrapped in the fact that his brother was whole and healthy and still got annoyed at comparatively small things.

He and his Sam had lost that somewhere along the way, somewhere in between fighting with each other, fighting the supernatural, fighting just to survive. The small things, little annoyances like untold truths and secrets, stopped being things to get irritated over and started becoming normal.

It was an odd contradiction. In the future he and Sam learned to be more honest with each other, more like partners, but at the same time . . . Dean shook his head, glancing across the room to where his brother was already lost in the shelves full of books.

A smile ghosted across Dean's lips. This brother stood with lighter shoulders, free from the weight that he carried for so long, weights that were now lost to a future that hasn't happened, wouldn't happen as long as he still had breath. Dean let out a small sigh and turned his attention to looking at the bookcase in front of him.

Roughly an hour later, he was barely halfway through the first bookshelf. Dean twisted his head around, looking back over his shoulder at the numerous shelves that filled the room. This was gonna take forever. These people seriously needed a card catalog system or something. Maybe _this_ was their security system: making it so hard to find anything that people died of boredom long before they got what they came for, then they could just dump the bodies of those that lost the will to live in the river below.

Dean nodded his head; it was a decent security system. He glanced over his shoulder to where Sam stood enthusiastically searching through the mountain-high shelves. Maybe not a fail-proof system.

He turned back toward the books, his hand shooting out to grasp at a shelf as a wave of dizziness crashed through him. Dean's fingers clenched around his flashlight; he squeezed his eyes shut as the world bobbed and weaved around him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered the sound of footsteps approaching. His initial thoughts bounced between _Thank God, Sammy. He could make the world to sit still,_ and _Dean, don't scare your brother._

That second sounded an awful lot like his father.

It took a fraction of a second longer than it should have, far too long, for Dean to realize the footsteps he heard; there were too many. Unless Sam grew an extra set of legs, they were no longer alone. Dean tried to push off the bookshelf, warn his brother, but before he could even complete the thought pain exploded through the back of his skull. The impact caused his forehead to slam into the shelf in front of him, driving a hot spike of pain through his head.

Dean's head pulsed and swam as someone wrapped his hand in his jacket and jerked him back to his feet; he'd have ended up on his face if not for the bruising grip holding him upright. Light from multiple flashlights dipped and swirled across his vision as someone pulled him toward the center of the room.

"Unless you want a new hole in your brother's head, I suggest you drop the gun." The voice from behind him reverberated through his skull. He blinked back the gray spots that threatened to drown his vision and looked across the room. Dean was pretty sure the voice wasn't speaking to him, as he wasn't sure where his gun was. He was pretty sure he had it right before the world exploded, though; at the moment he wasn't sure he could get his fingers to work even if he did know where it was.

Dean loved his brother, not that he'd ever admit it out loud, but it was nonetheless true. However, as Dean dragged his eyes up and across the library, he couldn't help but fervently wish that the two Sams standing on the other side of the room would merge back into the one he was supposed to be. One Sam was all Dean could handle on a good day, and this was quickly turning into a not-so-great day.

Both of the Sams held their guns out in front of them before slowly laying them down on the floor in unison, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if they'd practiced doing that.

"Mm, Sam and Dean Winchester." A familiar voice rang through the darkened library. "You know, you two are some very hard people to find."

"Gordon?" Sam shifted, his eyebrows jumping skyward. "How did you even know where we were?"

 _Now there's a good question. Good, Sammy._ Dean tried to twist himself around to see the man that had tried twice to kill them, but a kick to the back of the legs, from whom Dean could only assume to be Kubrick, sent him down to his knees before he got the chance. Dean threw his hands out, catching himself before he ended up kissing the floor.

"Hey!" Sam took a step forward, halting mid-step when Kubrick pressed his gun into the back of Dean's head, dragging a grunt of pain from the older Winchester.

"Your friend, Ethan Pierrick, gave me a heads-up when he found out you two were coming here."

Dean blinked. He knew something was up with that little weasel. If they made it out of this alive, he would have to pay the man a little visit.

Gordon stepped around Dean, moving toward the younger Winchester. "See, Sammy, I'm not the only one who knows the truth."

Dean shook his head, trying to clear his vision, looking up through his eyelashes, momentarily grateful that the two Sammys had shifted back into a single person.

"You know." Gordon paused his steps, turning back to face Dean for a moment then shifting his gaze to Sam once more. "I had this whole thing planned out." Gordon rubbed a hand down his chin. "I was gonna find you, put you out of your misery. You know, before you could hurt anyone. And that would be it."

"Gordon, you touch him, I swear to God, I will flay you with a cheese grater." Dean growled then winced as the barrel of the gun was shoved once more against the back of his head.

Gordon ignored the threat. "I was even going to let your brother live despite his threat and constant interference. Because, after all . . ." He paused, glancing back at Dean. "He is just human. Or so I had thought."

Dean started to roll his eyes then changed his mind halfway through the motion when a lance of pain ricocheted through his head. He idly wondered if he was going to spend the rest of his life, however long, trying to convince people that he was, in fact, one hundred percent human.

_Are you?_

An unbidden voice from the deepest recesses of his mind posed this question. This time Dean did roll his eyes despite the sharp pain it caused. That's all he needed right now, to lop an existential crisis on top of everything else.

"Look, Gordon." Dean winced as his voice came out rougher than what he wanted. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I don't know what Hunter's World Weekly News you're buying into, but—"

"It was another hunter." Gordon shifted, standing in front of Dean. "Never seen her before."

"So now we're taking the word of random ass hunters. Well, that's smart." _God, why did this conversation suddenly sound familiar?_

"I told you before, Dean." Gordon knelt down in front of him, putting himself at eye level. "I'm not some rookie hunter. I wouldn't just go off the word of some little smart-mouthed blonde I'd never met before. I did my research."

"Smart-mouthed, little blonde . . ." Dean narrowed his eyes. _If he says the name—_

"Ruby, as she called herself—"

Dean pressed his eyes shut; the next time he saw that bitch, he was going to tear her apart in ways Alistair could only dream about.

"She had a lot to say about you, Dean-o. About what you really are."

Dean lifted his eyes to Gordon, his fingers curling in a fist against the floor, the gun pressed against the back of his head the only thing keeping him from clocking the smug hunter. "You know she's a demon, right?"

Gordon tilted his head, studying Dean for a moment before letting out a short chuckle. "Somehow I doubt that's true."

"If you tell me it's because she was eating fries, I swear to God . . ." Dean's eyes flickered over to Sam just in time to catch the look of guilt that jumped across the man's face. _Good, he should feel guilty._

"I doubt any demon would be ballsy enough or stupid enough to walk into a road house full of hunters, spouting off about how Dean Winchester isn't human and his brother's just a red herring to cover it all up."

"What?" Sam and Dean echoed the question at the same time.

Gordon looked back over his shoulder to Sam then pushed himself up to his feet. "Don't worry, Sammy."

Sam pressed his lips into a thin frown, shifting against the use of the nickname.

"I haven't written you off the board yet. I know you're still dangerous. Like those other psychics, you need to be put down before you hurt someone." He paused, looking back at Dean. "But now I know the whole truth. The one I should have seen before." A smile smeared across his face. "The Winchester Brothers. Destined to bring about the end of the world."

Dean couldn't help but wince at the truth in the statement. They did bring about the end of the world, maybe not in the way Gordon is imagining in his loose-screw-filled head, but they did do it. More than once, and they'd given almost everything they had to fix it each time, but it only took one time for them to not be able to fix it, for the world to burn.

"Gordon," Kubrick started, a warning coloring his tone. "We need to do this before they come back."

"They?" Dean attempted to turn and look at the man behind him, but the gun at the back of his head stopped him once more. "You shove that thing into the back of my head one more time, I'm gonna make you eat it," Dean growled, fully intending on following through on the threat.

The sound of someone bounding up the stairs halted the conversation. "Gordon!" A breathless voice rang from somewhere behind Dean and Kubrick as a new flashlight joined the few beams providing poor lighting in the large area. "They're on their way."

"Shit." Gordon spun on his heel, walking toward the newcomer.

Dean pulled his eyes up, pinning his brother with a significant look. He wasn't sure how well his brother could see through the barely lit dark but hoped it was enough that he got the message. Dean waited until Gordon had moved a few steps behind him then threw all his weight backwards into Kubrick, hoping to knock both of them to the ground at the same time.

He heard multiple bodies cry out in surprise and quickly rolled over onto his knees. Wasting no time, he grabbed a fistful of Kubrick's shirt, slamming his fist against the man's face; the sharp crack of cartilage breaking filled the air as he landed a second and third punch. He jerked his fist back, readying for another punch, when something hard and boot-like cracked against his temple, snapping his head to the right, forcing his body to follow in a clumsy tumble. Lights exploded across his vision; whispered voices stuttered and skipped across his mind.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to press back the noise buzzing at the back of his mind as he placed a hand against his forehead, attempting to force the errant whispers back and shift his thoughts to more important things, like where the fuck Sam was. Distant grunts and sounds of a physical struggle gave him a clue, but Dean didn't seem to have enough control over his body at the moment to confirm or do anything more complicated than attempt to breathe through the agony pounding in his skull.

The choice to move was taken from his hands when someone kicked him in the side, forcing him onto his back. Dean peeled his eyes open, the action taking more effort than it had a right to, and found Gordon standing over him, the barrel of his gun aimed at his head.

Dean narrowed his eyes; he could see Gordon's mouth moving, was sure the man was talking, but the words were coming out garbled, like they were being fed through a deep pool of water. Scattered parts pushed through but made little sense.

"Dangerous . . . walk out . . . sorry . . . this . . ."

Dean didn't really need to hear the insane hunter's words to get the gist of what he was saying, or what he was planning, and he doubted he felt sorry about it. He certainly didn't look sorry, more gleeful, like a hunter about to tag a twelve-point buck. Dean wasn't sure if it was because of the light bouncing all over the library due to Sam and thug number three playing shadow puppets, or if it was the second—third?—blow to the head he'd received in the span of only a few minutes, but he could have sworn he saw the smallest hint of respect flicker through the man's eyes.

As Gordon tightened his finger around the trigger, two thoughts skipped across his mind.

First was the knowledge that, from this range, there was no way Gordon would miss.

The second was the saying, "You never hear the bullet that kills you," but there was no missing the explosion of gunpowder and fire that cracked through the room a split second before the bullet was propelled out of the barrel.


	18. A Thousand Faces

_I'm forced to look at you_

_You wear a thousand faces_

_Tell me, tell which is you_

_Broken mirrors paint the floor_

_Why can't you see the truth_

_You wear a thousand faces_

_Tell me, tell me which is you_

* * *

Dean knew that there was no way Gordon could miss, not from this close. Random thoughts and memories skipped around in his mind haphazardly, reluctant to settle on any one thing. He recalled the various times in his life when he had the distinct displeasure of experiencing the sensation of being shot: a round to the shoulder more than once, sometimes the through-and-through, other times involving a whiskey-aided game of Find-the-Bullet. Then there was the time he'd taken a chest full of rock salt. That one also ended in a whiskey-aided game, though it was played solo.

More than enough bullets had been taken and given over the years to contemplate a headshot—he'd seen and delivered plenty—but he wasn't quite convinced that he'd actually feel anything before the lights went out.

He had been nearly shot in the head once a year or so back, or back in his original timeline. _Nearly_ because he'd been off his game that day, but Sam, on the other hand, hadn't been and yanked him out of the way just in the nick of time. The bullet hadn't missed him completely: it left a deep graze across his temple and knocked him flat on his ass in a way that must have scared the shit out of his brother, who then spent the rest of the day glaring with that sour, pinched _I-told-you-so_ face.

Between the face from Sam, the tiny people hammering away inside his skull with tiny pickaxes, and his ears ringing incessantly, there were more than a few moments he'd almost wished the bullet had killed him. The head wound was just the shiny cherry on the shit sundae that'd been the entire day, which had started with a pissed Sam and a violent disagreement over Dean's ability to go out on a mission, as he'd still been recovering from an up-close-and-personal with the world's least wanted. Dean understood Sam's anger had been born of fear, that special type of fear that came from almost losing your brother and then spending an undeterminable amount of time at his bedside, alternating between wishing he'd wake up so you knew he'd be okay and wishing he'd pass out so he'd no longer be in pain, because in two thousand and eighteen medication of any sorts was a rare commodity.

Dean understood how that felt, but after spending almost a month confined to a bed and another month coped up in the bunker, Dean had become antsy and desperate to do something—anything that took place outside the cold concrete walls. So he used his greatest strength—pure and unaltered bullheadedness—and wormed his way onto the run.

. . . and then almost ate a bullet for his trouble. Worse than the wince-worthy scar, the searing headache, or the ringing that when it did finally die down took half his hearing with it for most of the day, was the special type of unbearable that Sam became when that one more thing had gotten piled on.

In the scheme of things, that wince-worthy scar was much better than the alternative, and the day hadn't been a total waste. The woman who almost capped him—Risa—had been very apologetic, and they were able to add one more person to their merry band of Not-Dead-Yet.

As Gordon's finger tightened around the trigger, Dean squeezed his eyes shut, taking cold comfort in the knowledge that if he was to die here tonight, even if it was at the hands of a madman, the world just might be better off for it.

* * *

Dean woke on a cough, gagging on the muddy river water rushing up from his lungs that eagerly spilled past his lips. Familiar hands wedged themselves firmly under his shoulders, rolling him onto his side as he struggled violently between gasping for air and choking on water.

"That's it, dude. Let it out."

He clenched his eyes shut, trying to concentrate on breathing, but the air kept catching stubbornly in his throat, blocked by the impossible amount of water still escaping his lungs. A large palm thumped lightly against the center of his back until there was no water left to bring up. Dean panted between dry heaves; the hand moved from his back to his shoulder, squeezing gently and holding him on his side.

Dean dragged clumsy fingers against the muddy ground in an attempt to push himself upright, but the grip was too strong, keeping him easily pinned in place, and his head spun ruthlessly from the futile effort.

"Lie still, man. We're okay—just breathe."

Dean was sick of being still, and he wasn't okay, and he wasn't breathing, not really. He tried to swallow his next cough but gagged on the rough tickle in his throat and the bitter mud coating his tongue. He curled in on himself as the cough sent a lance of pain ricocheting through his chest, back, and head. He groaned softly, muscles aching, head pounding like it had been used in a violent game of ping-pong, his throat feeling like he'd spent the night gargling some ill-thought concoction of broken glass and acid.

Through the cacophony of agonizing and unwelcome sensations, Dean knew above all else that he was _done_ lying prone on the ground. He braced one arm and shoved weakly upright, growling "Ge' off," at the hands-y son of a bitch trying to keep him down, who could only be his brother.

There was a sigh from over his shoulder as the hands shifted and steadied him when the change in orientation caused his head to pulse and swim. Dean drew his knees up, his wet jeans constricting the movement and putting pressure on parts of his body he couldn't remember bruising.

The hand remained between his shoulder blades, a contact point, but feeling so, so heavy on his apparently wrecked body. "You okay, man?"

A hummed moan rolled over Dean's lips as he braced his elbows against his knees and let his head drop into his cupped hands. He jerked back when his hand brushed against his temple and ignited a fresh stab of pain there.

"The hell—" Dean raised mud-caked fingers to seek out the offending spot—what must have been the source of the jackhammer pounding inside his skull—but was quickly discouraged by a firm, restraining hand around his wrist. He lifted his eyes, catching a flash of his brother's worried gaze before the younger man shifted his focus.

Sam leaned forward as he released Dean's wrist, his fingers moving instead to gently catch his chin and tilt his head to the side. "That's gonna need stitches and some serious cleaning." A grimace crossed his face. "Pretty sure the swim didn't help," he said, somewhat apologetically, as he pulled his fingers away.

Dean blinked owlishly, his mind struggling to catch up. "Swim . . ." His gaze slipped down to the river rushing past just beyond his feet, realizing for the first time since waking that they were sitting on a river bank, freezing cold and soaking wet. "What . . . ?" His head spun as he tried to piece together the night's events, what led them to sitting in the mud like drowned rats.

"Jesus, Dean." Sam sat back on his heels and ran a hand over his face, wiping away the remaining mud and water staining his cheeks.

Dean shifted his focus from the churning waters to his brother, taking in the man's hunched shoulders and ashen complexion. The sight of him snapped something inside of him to attention. "Sammy?" His voice was barely a whisper, but the concern in it was clear. "You okay?"

Sam choked on a mirthless laugh. "You mean aside from the gunshot and heart attack you seemed determined to give me tonight?"

Dean frowned. "What?"

Sam shook his head, seeming to misunderstand Dean's confusion. "You scared the shit out of me, man. Between Gordon, then the cult and—"

"Cult?"

"—and that chick, you just—"

"Sam! Stop!" Dean threw his hands up, halting his brother's tirade. "What the hell are you talking about?" He flung his arms wide, wincing as the motion proved unappreciated in multiple parts of his body. "What the hell happened with Gordon? And what chi—" A harsh coughing fit exploded through his chest, folding him forward over his knees.

Sam grabbed Dean's shoulder, steadying him. "Hey, take it easy."

A small groan slipped past Dean's defenses and escaped his lips as he struggled to regain control of his breathing.

"Dean? You okay, man?" Concern etched deeply into his face, Sam gave his shoulder a small squeeze that resonated through Dean's sore body like a knife wound.

Dean pressed a shaky hand against his throbbing chest. "No." He winced at the rough, raspy edge in his voice. "Dude, what happened? How . . ." He trailed off, gesturing uselessly toward the dirty river.

Sam studied his brother for a moment before letting his hand drop away from his shoulder. "After you killed Naudia—"

"Who?"

"Naudia? The—actually, I'm not sure exactly what she was."

"I don't . . ." Dean shook his head, feeling a line of tension and confusion etching its way between his brows. He dropped his gaze as he searched through the night's events, chest tightening as he failed to come up with even a brief hazy memory of what in the hell his brother was talking about.

"You don't what?"

"Remember." Dean pressed his fingertips against his forehead, trying to retrieve a coherent thought through the persistent jackhammer driving itself further through his head and chest.

Sam pulled away from his brother like he was a hot stovetop burner. "Dean, that's not funny."

The older hunter's eyes snapped up, fixing his brother with a glare. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"You started a fire to distract her from killing me."

Dean pressed his lips in a tight line, hating the feeling of the admission more than the words. "I don't remember."

Sam's frown deepened as he shifted forward, eyes searching his brother's face. "Dean, you drove a stake through her chest."

"I don't remember, Sam!" Dean curled his fist against his forehead as his shout reverberated through his fragile-feeling skull, reminding him of the injury decorating the side of his head—an injury he also had no memory of.

"Okay." Sam held his hands up, tapping his fingertips against the air. "You did take a decent shot to the head, so some memory loss is probably to be expected."

Dean pulled his gaze up to meet his brother's, unsure which of them Sam was trying to convince.

Sam dropped his hands with a flinch, pausing to press his hand against his shoulder. "Okay."He rolled his lips against his teeth, his head bobbing. "Okay, what _do_ you remember?"

Dean licked his bottom lip, pushing through the muck in his mind and trying once more to recall even one thing his brother had mentioned, or _anything_ that gave him a hint as to what had happened. "I remember the woods . . . and arriving at the library." He winced, his face folding in pained concentration. Everything from after entering the library seemed a distorted, cloudy mess, memories from a lifetime ago pushing to the surface, intertwining with other memories, entangling in each other until he was no longer sure what had happened recently, what happened in another time, and what may have never happened at all.

"Just take your time. It's okay. "

_No, it's not._ "Stop saying that," Dean said through gritted teeth. This wasn't okay, not by any stretch of the imagination. Something had happened, something he couldn't remember. Not knowing what he may have done, may have said—it was all far too reminiscent of losing control, of the blackouts he'd suffered under the Mark's influence. That thought alone twisted in his stomach and pressed against his already tight chest. It was a place he never wanted to find himself in ever again.

Dean's eyes snapped up. "Gordon." He searched his brother's face. "Gordon was there." He wasn't entirely sure if he was asking Sam or telling him. It was more a feeling rather than a solid memory.

Something flashed across Sam's face, but before Dean could put a proper label on it, it was gone.

"Yeah, he was there, along with two other guys."

Sam's voice had dropped into that special tone he adopted when something was bothering him, something that scared him, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if Gordon had said something, if he had spewed his anti-Christ propaganda to Sam. Dean remembered how Sam had struggled in the past with the idea of being evil or being used for evil purposes. Since coming back to this time Dean felt he had successfully navigated his little brother away from those thoughts. If Gordon had said something and sparked those feelings in Sam, there would be nowhere the hunter would be able to hide, and there would be no more second chances.

"Sammy." Dean ducked his head, trying to catch his brother's gaze. "You know whatever that bastard said isn't true. He's got no fuckin' clue what he's talking about."

Sam's brow crinkled down the center. "Yeah, man. I know."

Dean nodded. "Good. Then how about we get out of here before Dexter Morgan and his merry men decide they wanna go another round?"

Sam rolled his lips against his teeth once more, suddenly looking much younger and unsure of himself. "Dean . . ." Sam started slowly, like he was breaking some terrible news. "Gordon's dead."

Dean tipped his head back, trying to settle on the most appropriate response, trying to reconcile his brother's distraught tone with words that should bring relief. He knew Sam—his Sam _and_ this Sam—both would regret the loss of life. And this Sam especially would regret the loss of the life that wasn't necessarily evil but had a tendency to lean that way. Even with that in mind, his brother's tone, his posture, spoke of something more, something beyond just regret over the loss of life.

"Sam, how . . . did you . . ." Dean remembered the last time Gordon died, how it had happened. His brother never said anything about it, but he knew the action had weighed on the younger man's mind for days after, even if Gordon hadn't given them a choice.

Sam swallowed thickly but remained silent.

Dean squinted at his brother, watching him carefully. A thought crossed his mind. "Did I . . . ?" Dean wasn't sure which answer he'd preferred. It was clear something had happened that cut deep into his little brother in some way, and either answer would bring its own unique shit storm. "Sam?"

"He's dead," Sam repeated once more as if Dean hadn't heard it the first time.

"Yeah, you said that." Dean tilted forward. Worry snaked through him, its hold coiling tighter as his brother delayed answering the question. "How?"

Sam shook his head. "Does it matter?" His was tone brisk, but there was an underlying emotion Dean couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Yes. It does."

"Well, too damn bad," Sam snapped, turning a complete one-eighty from the hesitant words from just a few minutes before.

"Excuse me?" Dean's eyebrows jumped skyward in response to the abrupt defensiveness. "Sam, what the hell happened?" He scrunched his face in thought, trying to remember anything from the night, but there was nothing but a pounding headache, empty space, and murky fragments of what might have happened.

"He's dead. That's all that matters and after—" Sam cut himself off, pressing his lips into a thin line. He then shook his head. "I really doubt anyone is going to try to get revenge or anything for his death."

Before Dean had a chance to press his brother, the younger man pushed himself to his feet, wincing deeply and pressing a hand against his shoulder. "Gordon may no longer be a problem, but some of those cult members might decide to come looking for us. We should get going."

* * *

Sam winced as he pressed his hand against the fire radiating from his shoulder. Shivers ran in stark contrast over his muscles, causing the pain in his shoulder to flair spasmodically.

Sam's knowledge in field medicine and triage was inordinately extensive for what one would expect from an average law student taking a bit of time off from school, and because of that knowledge, however, he knew he'd gotten lucky back there at the library. He knew the bullet had hit the sweet spot, digging into soft tissue while missing the nerves, joints, and bones. He'd bleed, and it would hurt like a mother, but he wouldn't die unless the wound got infected, like bacteria from the river working its way into his system. It was a distinct possibility, and he knew he shouldn't dismiss the injury as just superficial. It would need to be cleaned and stitched, preferably by his brother, once they got back to their motel room.

Sam was more than a little surprised that Dean seemed to be oblivious to the injury. Not that his brother didn't have his hands full already with the mother of all concussions, not to mention two souls playing their own version of _Clash of the Titans_ , which had literally, and for what Sam had feared was _finally,_ sent him to the floor back in that library. Then there was the very worrisome fact that Dean remembered very little of what happened in the library, and what he did remember seemed to be more than a little hazy. He had told Dean not to sweat it, that is was probably due to the bullet that had dug a trench across the side of his head.

At the library, Sam had been distracted by the unnamed hunter when he turned just in time to see Dean knocked onto his back and Gordon fire a gun point-blank at his brother. Dean's body jerked with the impact of the bullet. Sam's heart had ground to a screeching halt, believing for those few seconds that the impossible had happened, that his older brother was lost to him.

Dean, never one to give into the odds stacked against him, jerked, drew in a deep, pain-filled breath of air, then curled in on himself, his hands raising to cradle his head. Sam had furtively thanked whatever angelic intervention had caused Gordon, a seasoned hunter, to miss at such a close range, even if he only _just_ missed.

Before Sam had a chance to make it to his brother, the Durants had shown up and all hell then proceeded to break lose in a rather spectacular fashion.

Despite insult and injury, Dean had always possessed this annoying sixth sense, one that told him when his little brother was wounded physically or emotionally, or if anything else was wrong. Sam hadn't realized just how much he relied on it, took it for granted until this moment.

He shot a sideways glance at his brother. They were both cold, soaked to the bone, and all around miserable, but now that he was looking at Dean, really looking, he realized that his brother wasn't shivering—he was shaking. "Dean?" Sam tilted his chin forward. "Dean, are you all right?"

"Fine."

The response was short, clipped, exposing a cold anger that seemed to have come out of nowhere and sent a chill down Sam's spine.

"Dean, are you mad?" Sam asked, because the combination of pain and cold didn't lend itself well to intelligent questioning.

Dean narrowed his eyes, glaring at some unseen object. "I'm not mad. I left mad somewhere between being pistol-whipped and almost drowning in a river."

Sam sucked his teeth. Dean was a few counties beyond mad—that much was painfully obvious. He was a veritable one-man rage machine at the moment, white-knuckling the worn steering wheel and taking his anger out on the gas pedal. But it wasn't enough—not even close. There was more under the surface, roiling, boiling, and looking for release. Sam didn't recognize the look on his brother's face . . . he didn't recognize his brother.

Sam's fingers tightened around the bunched fabric of his jacket, wet with river water and heavy with blood. "Dean, where are we going?" The pain behind his words were swallowed by the uncontrollable chattering of his teeth.

"To have a word with that worthless . . ." Dean's jaw worked as he struggled for the appropriate word, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel.

Sam narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out who Dean was talking about. Between his brother not being able to remember the majority of the night and most people that had tried to kill them being dead, it was a small pool to choose from. It took Sam a few moments longer than he would have liked to fish the answer out, blaming it on the cold and sharp throb radiating throughout his body. "Ethan Pierrick? I, uh—" Sam licked his lips, moving carefully as he tried to navigate this new version of his brother. "I thought you didn't remember what happened?"

"I don't."

"Then how . . ."

Dean's gaze flickered over to Sam. His eyes softened for a moment out of a guilty acknowledgment of his soaked, shivering brother. He released his death grip on the steering wheel long enough to manipulate the Impala's dials until the heater kicked on with a plastic-y rattle.

Sam shook his head, not liking the speed at which the Chevy was tearing through these small town streets. Even in the early-morning-deserted hours, they were going to kill someone. Then it struck Sam that: _Shit, he's going to KILL someone._ Sam glanced over at his brother. A hard, cold focus filled his eyes, one Sam had never seen before.

Sam had seen his brother mad before—angry, pissed, livid. Different grievances were met with different levels of anger: people hurting children or anyone Dean entrusted with the title of family seemed to earn the highest level. Sam knew a hundred different ways to describe his brother's anger when he was properly pushed: dangerous, explosive, hot, reckless . . . but _cold_?

Over the last few years since Dean had showed up that night at Stanford asking him for help finding their dad, Sam had slowly come to understand that his brother had a push and pull to his personality.

Dean was an optimist, annoyingly so at times—only the rare event had ever cast a shadow across it. He'd come within a hair's breadth of death on multiple occasions and each time just brushed it off, losing no sleep over how close he'd come. That type of confidence, the unflappable belief in his ability to come out on top—Sam could only assume that sort of faith came naturally after having spent so many years doing a job that lined up almost seamlessly with his particular skillset and instincts. Dean didn't always land on his feet, but he had the means to get there pretty quickly.

But Dean could also be cold and adopt a single-minded focus that was sometimes a little frightening. It had taken Sam a while, but over the course of the last two years he'd learned that these emotions weren't separate from each other, weren't mutually exclusive. They were a yin and yang, to and fro, an eternal dance between light and darkness. One enabled the other; they created a dichotomous balance that made Dean a force to be reckoned with.

But this, the Dean sitting next to him, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel in a bloodless grip—this was different. This was a coldness that was devoid of the other side of the coin. A yin without its yang. The Dean Sam was looking at wasn't showing that other side; they weren't in the moment. This was more a cold calculation on Dean's part. Premeditated. A calm fury that would not relent until it had found its target. Anger without restraint. And that scared Sam far more than he was willing to admit.

"Haven't we had enough excitement for one night?" he asked uneasily. "We should just let it go, Dean."

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said without granting him the benefit of eye contact, his voice low with an almost calm edge to it.

Sam wanted to ask what he was sorry for, putting both of them in danger at the library? For getting Sam shot? Or for not heeding his warning or taking his opinion into account here? Dean was blowing Sam off, almost to the point of ignoring him; it was obvious he'd already decided what he was going to do, and Sam was just along for the ride.

Dean had taken enough blows tonight to be well off his game, and, even with a hole in his shoulder, Sam was pretty sure he could overpower his big brother at the moment. Could easily knock his foot from the gas pedal, rip his hands from the wheel, and they could have it out, right here in the middle of the road. Wouldn't be the first time they had a middle-of-the-night, middle-of-the-road fight.

But as so often happened, Sam's musings dropped a trapdoor on his opportunity for conversation. The Impala pulled to a sudden, violent stop, and afterwards Sam pushed himself off the dashboard and found himself staring at a small storefront, tucked away in an easily overlooked corner.

The driver's side door creaked open, and Sam found himself looking at the empty seat next to him, a stony-faced Dean already crossing in front of the windshield, storming up to the door, fist raised to pound on the glass.

Sam moved quickly to extricate himself from the car, mindful of his wounded shoulder as he hurried to his brother's side, shivering with cold and pain and something a little less definable but felt a lot like fear. He was scared, and it was Dean that was scaring him. He had these thoughts before, over the last few months, that the Dean sitting next to him was an impostor and not really his brother, but this was the first time since he found out the truth about Dean's souls that Sam found himself terrified about what the future had in store for them. For his brother. Because this Dean, he was unrecognizable, slamming a closed fist against a thin pane of glass with enough force that it shook with each blow. Sam worried that he was going to send his hand through it.

Sam threw a roving gaze over the symbols decorating the store's windows. He recognized some but not all the warding and found himself wondering if Dean knew them all. "All right, Dean. What's our play here?" Sam knew that at this point he really didn't have much choice beyond following his brother's lead, unless he wanted to try to knock the man out and drag him back to the motel, but he wasn't at _that_ point—yet.

Dean didn't appear to have any intention of answering Sam's question and was spared from having to do so as a light turned on inside the shop. A lean man with a rather pronounced limp appeared in the door's window, yanking it open.

The man, Bobby's contact and the shop proprietor, Ethan Pierrick, appeared startled to see them, his dark eyes widening at the sight of Dean standing there. Ethan moved to slam the door shut, but Dean was quicker, pulling forth a ferocity Sam had never seen and surging forward as though he'd been released from a trigger. One blink and Dean was standing next to Sam on the raised stoop at the shop's entrance. Two blinks and he had a fistful of the man's shirt, dragging him across the linoleum and slamming him up against a wall, shelving and merchandise splintering and falling with the force of the impact.

The thought sprinted once more across Sam's mind, too fast to catch. _He's going to_ kill _someone._

"Dean!" Sam darted into the shop, his own pain pushed aside as all his attention went toward prying his brother's suddenly iron grip from the man's collar. Pierrick's feet were off the ground, toes of his shoes scraping helplessly against the floor as he pawed at Dean's hands.

"You son of a bitch!" He slammed the man a second time. "You sold us out! To Gordon!" Each sentence was punctuated with another slam, trinkets and knick-knack's shattering against the floor.

"Dean!" Sam gripped his brother's jacket sleeve and gave it a rough tug. A brief flash of terror slammed through him, a fear he didn't even know was a possibility until this moment, of a future that's created the man before him and destroyed the person he once was. Sam couldn't help but wonder: If his brother didn't have two souls warring with each other, two different versions of himself stuffed into the same body, what he'd be like.

Dean shrugged him off easily, like swatting at a fly. "He sold us out!" Dean's voice was an unrecognizable growl as the mask of fury painted over his features.

"I don't care, Dean." Sam grabbed his arm again, because no matter what happened in the future, his brother didn't kill people, and he wasn't going to let Dean kill this man.

Dean slammed the man into the wall once more. "He almost got us killed."

"But we weren't."

"Barely." His hands tightened around the collar of Ethan's shirt, effectively cutting off the man's air supply.

"Dean, just—"

"Get off me, Sam!" Dean finally unlocked his right hand from its death grip long enough to shove his brother away from him.

Dean's hand collided with Sam's wounded shoulder, ripping out a strangled cry of pain before Sam had a chance to stifle it. His hand jumped up to his shoulder in a feeble attempt to stabilize the agony flaring from the gunshot wound.

Dean's head whipped around. "Sam, what . . ." His fingers fell away from Ethan's neck, and the man dropped unsteadily to his feet. He made as if to run but only managed a half step before Dean's fingers tangled into his shirt, pinning him back against the wall, his focus never shifting away from his little brother. "What's wrong?"

Sam swallowed, fingers tingling from the tight grip he laid on the furiously throbbing joint. "Shot," he breathed out in a bare whisper.

Dean's eyes widened as he jutted his chin forward. "Shot? As in gunshot?"

Sam simply nodded while trying to draw the pain in, push it back down to a more manageable level.

"When?"

Sam didn't answer, deciding it was going to be bad enough when Dean figured it out; he didn't need to make it any worse by helping him get there.

"Sam . . . when? Was it . . ." Dean dropped his eyes, and Sam could tell he was replaying the night's events, looking for that moment when he failed to protect his brother, caused him to get injured.

Dean's face scrunched up, pain and guilt chasing each other across the older man's face as he tried to force the memory to surface. His fingers tightened reflexively around Pierrick's shirt as he failed once again to draw up anything more than the fleeting hazy memories skittering across his mind.

Dean's fingers slowly relaxed their hold on Pierrick's shirt. He was wincing, but just like that he was back. Like the flipping of a switch. His Dean, not the angry, cold man who'd entered the shop moments before. This was his big brother, brave, stupid, self sacrificing. But, more importantly, still human and still vulnerable.

But still protective, and when Ethan saw fit to move again, to run, Dean turned in his direction, fists clenching at his sides.

Sam wrapped a hand around Dean's arm, halting him mid-motion. "Dean, look at me. Let it go." Sam shook his head but refused to break eye contact, refused to give this Dean up again.

Dean pulled his head back. Something flashed through his eyes, too quick for Sam to put a proper name to it.

Panting, sweating, and white-faced, Pierrick pressed himself against the wall and nodded in violent agreement with Sam's request.

Dean turned and sized the man up. There was no question in Sam's mind: any version of his brother could tear this man apart with his bare hands, especially considering he'd given them up to Gordon and almost got them killed. Dean gave the man a look that made it very clear to him as well. One thing was for sure: Ethan Pierrick wouldn't be letting the name "Winchester" drop from his lips ever again.

A wail of sirens sounded in the distance. Sam didn't care whether they were coming for them or not; it was the signal to get the hell out of dodge. He flexed his fingers against his brother's arm. "Dean."

"Yeah." Dean finally tore his eyes away from the man cowering behind him. He took a moment to study Sam, as if looking for any other hidden or unmentioned injuries, then offered his own shoulder for Sam to lean on.

Sam gave a tight nod to let his brother know that he was okay, shifting his hand from Dean's arm to grip his wounded one to his chest.

Dean pulled open the door and paused, eyes narrowing as they danced across the storefront windows and layers of warding hidden in there. "Huh." Dean made a sound that wasn't quite a word but was certainly a warning, and Sam couldn't think of any way to describe it beyond _cruel_.

He was getting a glimpse of the man his brother was destined to become, the one who was forced to watch the world burn, and it was nothing short of terrifying.

Sirens picked up in volume and intensity as they drew closer.

"Dean . . ."

"Those are some seriously complex wards and seals, Ethan. Must have pissed a lot of people off, a lot of _things_ , to warrant that level of protection," Dean started as though he hadn't heard his brother.

Ethan gave a weak shrug. "Life of a hunter." His voice was all grit and sandpaper. "Comes with the territory."

Dean raised his eyebrows, considering it. He looked down to the line of thick mason jars lining a shelf below the window. He lifted one, hefted it in his hand as though testing the weight.

"Dean?" Sam was about to take a step forward when, without any further warning, Dean hauled his arm back and chucked the jar through the window like he was throwing for the third out at home base.

Sam flinched away, looking back toward Pierrick as he heard the man gasp.

Dean straightened his eyes, sliding back toward the old hunter. "Hope you can get that window repaired and those sigils redone before any of them find you."

Sam watched as some of the tension melted out from Dean's body as his brother looked back to him.

Dean sniffed. "Okay, I'm good now." His voice took on a light tone. "We can go."


	19. Far From Home

_All the places I've been and the things I've seen_

_A million stories that made up a million shattered dreams_

_The faces of people I'll never see again_

_And I can't seem to find my way home_

* * *

It was with no small amount of trepidation that she eyed the large oak door she found herself standing before once more. She reminded herself that at least this time she had important information. Tugging on the bottom of the too-short skirt of her waitress uniform, she found herself idly wishing she'd taken a few minutes to change into something else—or someone else. She gave one more nervous jerk at the hem, then pushed the large door open.

The man seated across the expanse of the lavish office still appeared just as he had on her last visit. She couldn't help but wonder why, with such a rich pool of appearances to choose from, he seemed to favor the visage of a balding middle-aged man. Her eyes dropped to the desktop, head tilting to the side as she took in the chessboard there. She recognized the item easily, having seen the game in the midst of play a few times in passing, and, despite certain rules, curiosity had gotten the best of her and she'd taken the time to learn about it. The game had been invented by humans—long ago during sixth century India—though back then it'd been called _Chaturanga_.

What gave her pause, however, was why her superior bothered with the game, as humankind in general or anything they created had never been high on the list of things that intrigued him.

He gracefully shifted a piece on the board: the black queen-side bishop to G4. "Are you planning on standing there all day, or do you have something to report?" He moved another piece: white's queen-side knight to C3. He looked up, stopping short as his eyes traveled the length of her appearance before snapping back to her face. His eyebrows pulled up toward his receding hairline in a very clear, though unspoken, question.

She fidgeted uncomfortably under his scrutinizing stare and cleared her throat. "I thought it would be easier to approach the Winchesters in a more . . . aesthetically pleasing form." Her desire to have changed her appearance before reporting increased tenfold.

He dropped his gaze back to the chessboard, sliding another piece forward – this time the black's pawn to G6.

"And?" he pressed, his patience perpetually thin.

She cleared her throat once more and took a step forward. "Using information we obtained from the witch doctor that treated Dean after the event, we were able to locate the Winchesters, and I was able to get close."

He didn't speak, instead moving the white knight to capture the pawn on E5.

"I wasn't able to get as close as I had hoped to the younger Winchester, but from what I could see he appears relatively normal." She tugged at the hem of her polyester sleeve. "No mark of time travel anywhere that I could see."

"And Dean Winchester?" He paused a moment, then pressed a fingertip to the black bishop, moving it to D1 and capturing white's queen.

"I was able to get closer to him, but I couldn't look too deeply without risking the chance of raising their suspicions. Dean Winchester is . . ." she trailed off, though not unsure of her report—simply taking a moment to gather her words and put them in proper order. "He is harboring two souls. Two versions of the same soul."

The older man stopped, lifting his eyes from the chessboard. "Two?"

She nodded. "Yes. One is . . . intrinsic to this time, and the other . . . it's from some time in the future, but both are Dean Winchester."

The game lay between them, untouched and seemingly forgotten for the moment.

"How far into the future?"

She rolled her lips against her teeth and tugged once more at her sleeve. "I wasn't able to tell. Not without risking exposure."

As she watched her superior's eyes narrow in thought, she could imagine what he might be thinking. They had already known that time travel was at play here, but to send a soul back through time, to send it back without a vessel or container of some sort to hold it, to keep the soul from splintering throughout the timeline . . . it just wasn't done. There were far too many variables that would have to be accounted for, to avoid something going catastrophically wrong. It would take a very old and powerful spell and a very desperate caster.

She took a half step forward, her movement drawing her boss' attention back.

"I don't think the spell was done properly," she offered, as an afterthought.

"How so?" He folded his hands together, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Well, as I said, I wasn't able to really get a deep look, but . . ." She paused, recalling the odd feeling she'd gotten as she snuck a peek inside of the older Winchester. "He . . . the souls . . . they felt as though there was discord between them. Like each soul was attempting to eclipse the other."

"I see." His eyes dropped back down to the chessboard, moving white's bishop to F7, seizing the black pawn and putting the king in check. "This will put a few things off track."

"Sir, Cold Oak didn't happen as it was supposed to, but . . ." She took a deep breath. "Dean Winchester's soul, his older soul . . . it's already marked."

He calmly, deliberately, moved the white knight from C3 to D5. "Now that is interesting." A smile pulled at the edges of his lips as he rested the pad of a finger atop black's king before tipping it over.

* * *

The bathroom door was thin enough that Dean could hear Sam speaking to someone out in the main room, even through the spray of the shower and the vent humming overhead. It was a low, hushed tone that was loud enough to irritate the headache blooming behind his eyes, but it was too quiet to betray the intent behind his brother's conversation. Dean had a strong feeling that it was Bobby on the other end of the phone call.

After leaving Ethan Pierrick's store, Sam had insisted they put as much distance between them and the Durants as they could, but Dean could hear the words not spoken and his brother's desire to put distance between them and what happened with Pierrick.

They had a short but heated debate regarding whether a graze to the head really trumped a hole in the shoulder. Dean pointed out that he'd previously been shot in both the head and the shoulder and therefore knew better than Sam which injury took precedence. It was a bit of dirty pool and perhaps a low blow, but it served its purpose, and Sam seceded the argument with nothing more than a clenched jaw and a tight jerk of his head. They drove in a tense, heavy silence for most of the trip before the pain thrumming from their respective injuries decided for them that far enough was _far enough_ , and they stopped at a cheap motel in some Podunk town to assess and patch up wounds and decide on their next course of action.

Retreat. Recover. Regroup.

Dean dug the heel of his hand against his eye, carefully avoiding the freshly cleaned and stitched gash that was _maybe_ a quarter-inch away from being a far more serious and final injury. While the graze wasn't nearly as bad as the one he'd caught from Risa's gun back in his own time, it had still caused more than enough damage and left his head spinning anytime he dared to move too quickly.

Out in the main room, Sam's voice increased in volume and intensity, and Dean was pretty certain he heard his own name clear as a bell.

He braced his hands against the sleek tile of the shower wall and shoved his face beneath the steaming spray of water, letting it spill past the aching contours of his bruised face and drown out all background noise. Without the distraction of Sam's steady, concerned voice filtering in from the other room, he found himself locked in a claustrophobic battle with his own dark, confused thoughts. The brief conversation he and Sam had in the car shortly after leaving Pierrick's pushed itself to the forefront of Dean's mind.

He had been more than a little miffed by the idea that his younger brother had been shot and intended to leave Dean unawares of the circumstances surrounding the injury until the truth was incidentally forced out when he unthinkingly shoved Sam. The anger he felt was a step beyond hypocritical, but it hadn't stopped him from shooting his brother a glare and asking:

" _Why didn't you tell me?"_

_Sam's eyebrows arched up and a frown tugged at his lips. "Tell you what?"_

" _What? That you enjoy having your hair braided._ What do you think? _Why didn't you tell me you'd been shot?"_

" _Oh." Sam hitched his good shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. "I thought you knew. You know, considering it was your—" Sam bit off the end of the sentence, eyes pulling away from his big brother and stubbornly redirecting at some far-off spot beyond the windshield._

_Dean's gaze snapped over to his brother. "My what?" Dean tightened his fingers around the steering wheel when his persistence was met with only silence._

" _Sam?" he pressed tightly, but the silence pushed on, so Dean slammed his foot against the brake, throwing both himself and his brother against the front of the car as the wheels locked up and screeched to a halt on the sleek black pavement._

" _Jesus, Dean!" Sam pushed roughly off the dashboard and threw his brother a glare, pressing a hand against his aching shoulder._

" _Sam." It was a warning, a crystal clear threat that they weren't going anywhere until Sam answered his question._

" _You were being a smartass, okay!" Sam spat, throwing his good hand in the air. "You were being a smartass and they shot me to shut you up. Is that what you wanted to hear? You feel better now knowing?"_

_Dean felt the color drain from his face; he opened his mouth only to snap it shut with an audible click. In the scheme of things, "sorry" just didn't seem quite big enough. He pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line, then threw the Impala back into drive and continued along the nameless, deserted back road to an equally nameless destination._

Dean hadn't asked any more questions, and Sam hadn't offered any additional information until they arrived at the motel.

His mind circled back to his most recent injury— _injuries_ , he corrected himself, casting a tentative glance over the vivid bruises that encircled both biceps and an impressive black-and-purple bloom that began just to the left of his shoulder blade and trailed all the way down to his right hip. When he'd asked Sam how he acquired the bruising, his brother only gave a small shrug and gave a curt, "The usual way," as though that explained everything, as if it explained _anything_.

Riding sidecar to the confusion and utter annoyance of not knowing what exactly had gone down, how it had gone down, or why Sam was beyond reluctant to even talk about it, was the much-hated but all-too-familiar feeling of having failed in a major way, of _knowing_ he'd failed in a major way.

Dean had always and would always have one single purpose that took precedence over anything else: He was supposed to protect his little brother, to look out for Sammy—not that Sam was in any way weak or otherwise incapable of taking care of himself. He'd outgrown both Dean and the need to have his big brother fight his battles for him somewhere between sophomore and junior year. But at some point after Dean got his brother from Stanford, Sam had begrudgingly come to acknowledge Dean's need to assume this role. He didn't have to agree with it, but he respected it.

Even with his own life being the one at risk, this extraction from the Durants was Dean's unspoken lead to take, and he'd done nothing to get the both of them shot and nearly killed. Not to mention, he'd failed to retrieve the one item that had been the sole point of the mission. The entire night had been a complete waste of time and life, and Dean couldn't shake the feeling that he had played a large role in that outcome. He couldn't help feeling exactly like the failure he'd always dreaded being.

All he wanted, _ever_ wanted, was to protect the people he considered family, but he couldn't help feeling like all he did—like all he _ever_ did—was drop the ball and get them injured, killed, or worse.

_I don't need to feel like hell for failing you, okay? For failing you like I've failed every other godforsaken thing that I care about!_

Dean slapped his hand against the slippery bathroom wall as a viscous wave of vertigo slammed through him. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the world to right itself once more, then let out a slow breath as the ground steadied itself beneath his feet.

A side effect from the headshot, nothing more. Dean wasn't sure who in the empty bathroom he was trying to convince.

After their short-lived discussion in the car, Sam had spent the rest of the ride shooting Dean with sidelong, appraising glances when he thought his brother wasn't paying attention. It was a recognizable look that Dean had been on the receiving end of more times than he cared to remember; it was one that wavered between concern and wariness, like his brother was afraid Dean might shatter into a million jagged pieces right in front of him or murder everyone within a ten-mile radius with the blunt end of a hammer, and damned if Sam could figure out which was more likely.

Dean could feel something shifting between them, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He was reminded of the Sam he left behind, that older version of his little brother that took to leadership and authority like it was second nature, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. The thought only served to incite an inner struggle of Dean's own, and he shook his head beneath the tepid spray of water.

In the future, Sam had been quick to take hold of a situation whenever his older brother had been unable to, and a part of Dean really was hopeful that his little brother could still grow into that man and do so without the guilt and sorrow that had weighed him down, without the bad choices and impossible decisions they'd been forced to make.

It felt like every decision a Winchester made only ever ended in one of two ways: badly or horribly.

Dean didn't regret most choices he'd made, but he did regret some of the consequences that stemmed from those choices. The way he'd so willingly trusted Gadreel and caused Kevin's death would always be near the top of that list. If Dean lived that long, if he ever had the chance to redo that moment in time, he couldn't really be sure he would choose differently.

The thought caused an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with dueling souls, but it served to bring Dean back to the moment and realize he'd gotten lost in his own head. His sore muscles were well on their way to tightening back up, and gooseflesh littered the landscape of his forearms from the steady spray of water raining down on him, now barely lukewarm.

The pipes of the motel's plumbing shuddered and squealed as he shut off the water, and when he stepped out of the shower he gave a half-assed pass at toweling off, avoiding all the parts of his body colorfully marked by a show of violence he couldn't remember. The residual dampness of his skin left his sweatpants feeling tight, the soft gray of his T-shirt darkening around his neck and chest.

Dean wasn't sure how much time had passed since Sam shoved him one-handedly in the direction of the shower, insisting for once that he take the first one, and he wasn't entirely sure it really mattered. In the other room, his brother was still engaged in what sounded like a heated-enough conversation. He sounded in control, and, despite himself, Dean couldn't help but miss that brother he left behind all over again. A small part of him wondered if this Sam could ever become that man, or if Dean's meddling had removed that possibility altogether.

He missed the relationship they had, one that had been fought for through regrets and mistakes, forged from the blood and tears that had been spilled throughout the years.

Dean threw a quick glance at the foggy mirror over the sink; a callused hand swiped the mist from the glass surface. He jerked back away from the face staring back at him and the whispers that echoed through the small room.

_I know how you look into a mirror . . . and hate what you see._

Pain flashed through his chest as his mind clouded with dark, twisted memories; he desperately grabbed the sides of the porcelain sink. He squeezed the edges until the pain faded back into a dull ache and all he could see was the silver drain of the sink. His grip loosened; he pressed the heel of his hand against his damp forehead, then raked a hand through his wet hair before pulling open the bathroom door.

Sam startled guiltily, seemingly in the middle of wearing a track in the dingy carpeting from his anxious pacing. He dropped his hand to his side, like maybe Dean hadn't yet realized he was on the phone.

Dean shifted his weight on the threshold, unsure of whether or not he should be offended. It would take a hell of a lot more than a bullet to the head to make him stop keeping track of his brother's movements.

"I used all the hot water," he said finally, lamely.

Sam's eyebrows jumped and slithered like caterpillars, and he glanced down at his watch, appearing to be as surprised as Dean had been by the time that had passed. "That's okay."

They stared at each other a long moment, and a tiny voice called " _Sam_?" from the phone clutched in his hand.

Sam raised the cell to his ear. "Yeah, Bobby. Dean's here," he said, a little too pointedly. "I'm gonna put you on speaker." He fiddled with the phone for a minute before setting it on the cheap plastic motel table.

" _How you feelin', kid?"_

Dean fought the urge to glare up at his brother for taking it upon himself to spill the beans. "Million bucks. Why do you ask?"

" _Sam said things didn't quite go as planned at the Durant Estate."_

"Yeah, well, he wasn't a drama geek for nothing."

" _So you've got the book, then?"_

Dean recognized that tone. It was one he'd heard many times throughout his life, from teachers, his father, Sam; but only on occasion from Bobby, with whom he'd always felt a special bond. It was a tone the speaker used to wrap around a question they already knew the answer to but wanted you to admit it all the same. Suddenly, the entire exchange felt like a trap that Dean had strutted straight into. He tightened his jaw, eyes ticking up to Sam. "No."

Sam drew his lower lip between his teeth, then shook his head. "So now what? I mean, without that book there's no way to finish the spell, and without the spell . . ." He trailed off, shooting his brother a wounded look.

_"I'm gonna assume going back for it is out of the question."_

Sam leaned over the table, placing all of his weight on his palms. "Even if the book managed to survive the fire, there's no way we could go back for it. They know what we look like, and whatever is left of the cult will be out for blood."

There was a small pause, then a weary sigh. _"You boys could find trouble in an empty room."_

Dean met his brother's eyes and hitched a shoulder; the man wasn't wrong.

" _But damn if you two ain't the luckiest SOBs sometimes."_

A line creased Sam's forehead as Bobby continued, and he shot a quick glance toward Dean before directing his eyes back down to the phone between them. "Bobby?"

Dean could hear movement through the phone, what sounded a lot like a Bobby Singer-sized pile of books and papers being shoved around.

" _After you two left for Baton Rouge, I did a little more digging on this book of yours. Turns out the one at the Durants' is a copy. A very old one transcribed from the original about a hundred or so years back."_

"A copy?" Sam cocked his head to the side as he tried out the idea. His eyebrows drew upwards suddenly into an arc. "Then the original—"

" _Is at the Beinecke Rare Book Library in Yale."_

"Bobby, I could kiss you." A relieved grin finally tugged at the corners of Dean's lips.

" _Yeah, well, let's not celebrate yet. You two still need to get up there and get the book without setting anything on fire or blowing anything up. That something you idjits can manage, or should I call in reinforcements?"_

Dean wasn't sure what reinforcements there were that Bobby could call in. After the whole hell gate thing, he and Sam found themselves in pretty bad standing with the vast majority of the hunter population. It had taken a few years, one world-ending event that wasn't technically their fault, and a reputation for killing things that no one else would dare go near before he and Sam stopped worrying about a hunter sneaking into their motel room and capping them in their sleep.

Dean rolled his eyes. "We'll be fine, Bobby."

" _Uh-huh."_ Bobby didn't sound quite convinced. _"Sam?"_

A frown tugged at Dean's lips, and he dug his fingers across his forehead as a flash of pain spiked behind his eyes and shot viciously down toward his chest.

Sam pressed his lips into the thin line and gave a single nod. "We'll be okay, Bobby. I'll call if we run into any trouble."

Bobby grunted out a _"See that you do,"_ before the call disconnected with a faint click.

Dean pressed a hand against his chest, trying to will the growing ache aside in favor of other concerns. He gave the small phone a long, thoughtful look, then turned that look to his little brother. Sam had moved away from the table, grabbing his duffle and rooting through it.

"We should get a few hours of sleep before we head out. It's a bit of a haul, but I think we can make it in a—" Sam cut off as he turned to face his brother. "Dean?"

Dean let his hand drop from his chest and stood silent, refusing to wince and studying his brother before asking the question that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue since he stepped out of the bathroom. "You told Bobby what happened at the Durants'?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I know the contact he gave us turned out to be bad, but . . ." Sam shrugged. "We've known Bobby all our lives. I trust him." He paused and straightened before adding, "Unless there's something you're not telling me."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the not-so-subtle barb but chose to ignore it. There were a lot of things about this time that were rough and unfamiliar, but Bobby Singer wasn't one of them. "I'm not saying you shouldn't trust him. I'm just trying to understand why you won't talk to me, your own brother, about almost anything that happened."

Sam dropped his gaze from Dean, fingering the zipper of his duffle. "Dean, I didn't tell Bobby anything more than what I told you, not really. Besides, like I said, I trust him."

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yeah, I heard—"

" _I can't trust you anymore, Dean."_

_What?_ Dean winced, fingers twitching to rub away the spike of pain shooting between his head and chest. He jerked his eyes back up to his brother.

"Wait." He paused, replaying the words that had just spilled past his little brother's lips. "You don't trust me?"

Sam dropped the duffle, turning to face his brother. He gestured with both hands. "I'm not saying that, Dean."

"'Cause whatever happened," Dean continued, taking a step forward and jabbing his finger at the ground, "we're still family."

" _You say that like it's some sort of cure-all, like it can change the fact that everything that has ever gone wrong between us has been because we're family."_

Sam dragged the hand of his good arm through his hair. "I know that, Dean, it's just . . ."

"— _you want to work? Let's work. If you want to be brothers . . ."_

"I trust you, Dean," Sam said finally. "I just . . . I don't know you."

_So, what—we're not family now?_


	20. Through Glass

_While you're outside looking in_

_Describing what you see_

_Remember what you're staring at is me_

_'Cause I'm looking at you through the glass_

_Don't know how much time has passed_

_All I know is that it feels like forever_

_And no one ever tells you that forever feels like home_

_Sitting all alone inside your head_

* * *

Sam shifted on the Impala's bench seat and cast a tentative glance toward his brother. Since their conversation the previous night, Dean had been unusually quiet, responding to any questions or comments Sam dared pose with silence or, if he was lucky, minimal grunts of a noncommittal nature. The older brother he was familiar with, the one he'd _grown up with,_ could be pensive at times, but he was never really prone to brooding. It wasn't uncommon for Dean to go quiet for a time when something was bothering him, but more often than not he moved past it quickly, falling back into easy grins and off-color jokes once he'd come to terms with whatever was troubling him or having simply decided to shove the issue to the side and barrel through.

This man beside him was more a stranger than a brother, and Sam was having trouble figuring out how to move around this version. He didn't know if there had been something specific that dropped Dean into this quiet funk or if he'd taken up bouts of gloomy silence as a kind of hobby in his later years. He didn't know which buttons he could push or how hard he could push them. He didn't know which tone or word choice would end with a shove against the wall or a slug to the jaw. He felt like he was walking on broken glass, stepping through a minefield without so much as the benefit of disturbed soil to give him a hint as to where the next bad step might be. He didn't know if it was a specific something that was bothering Dean and granting Sam this prolonged silence, and, even further, he didn't know if that something specific had actually come from _him_.

_Well,_ Sam chastised himself with a sigh, propping his elbow onto the door and palming his forehead, _that's not completely true._ He knew _something_ he said had prompted this silence; he just wasn't sure _what_ that something was. He'd told his brother the night before that he didn't feel like he really knew the man, at least not like he'd thought he did. Shortly after that, Dean had all but shut down any further attempt at conversation on Sam's part, claiming to be tired and suggesting they both get some sleep before the long haul to Yale. He felt his brother's reaction had been a bit more exaggerated than the situation warranted and had simply thought—or maybe had just hoped—that given everything they'd supposedly been through, Dean would appreciate a little honesty in return.

Apparently not.

Dean had all but given up the ruse entirely, and the personality pushing through was becoming more of a stranger that'd seen the end of the world and lived to tell the horrific tale and less the familiar and seemingly fearless, easy-going man that had once sat in his spot, leaving that brother in danger and Sam in a fairly precarious position. Dean kept saying he was _Dean_ . . . but there was so much about this man sitting behind the wheel that still felt like a mystery wrapped in an enigma then swathed in a paradox, just to make sure Sam was good and confused.

But on the better than even chance that it _was_ Sam who had caused this funk, then he was determined to drag Dean back out of it.

He rotated his body once more on the seat, not enough to draw attention to the movement but enough to line up a better angle on his brother. Dean had crammed his body so close to the driver's side door that he had nearly become one with the car, his left shoulder wedged tightly into the corner where the seat met the window. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands and taking care not to move unless absolutely necessary. In the sporadic flare of passing interstate lights, Sam could see his brother's jaw clenched in poorly hidden discomfort, and now that he was really looking he could see that Dean's face was pale almost to the point of being nearly translucent and dotted with perspiration.

Of everything that was happening and everything that had happened, the one thing Sam knew without question, the one constant between the present and future, between this world and the one that would never come to pass, was that when it came to concealing pain from his little brother, Dean had a _shit_ poker face.

His brother was in some _serious_ pain, and, at some point, Dean was just going to have to accept the fact that he wasn't as stealthy as he thought he was. Every grimace, every wince, every groan—no matter how subtle the motion or how desperately he fought to hide it, Sam was catching and cataloging it all.

Sam paused in that moment; he had just thought that _his brother_ was in pain, and it was the first time Sam had identified Dean as such since learning the truth without cringing internally, like he was feeding in to some sort of delusion.

He swallowed, heard the motion in the otherwise silent interior of the Impala. Dean's pain-tells seemed to be the same as they always had, and that meant it would more than likely take a fair amount of finesse to lure the man into any sort of conversation regarding the cause, just as it always had in the past. Except they were drawing nearer to their destination, and the window for trying to pry something out of his brother was shutting rapidly.

Sam cleared his throat. "So."

Dean twisted his head slowly, eyes narrowing like he was debating his answer before Sam even had a chance to ask his question, but instead only replied with a hesitant, "So?"

That single word was already more than he'd gotten all day, and Sam figured it was worth a tally mark in the "Win" column. He tapped his fingers on his knee, picked at a frayed thread in his jeans. "I was just thinking, about, uh, well, everything, I guess. And I was wondering . . . the, uh . . . the Cubs ever win the World Series?"

Dean didn't blink but stared so long that Sam began to grow concerned that the Impala didn't have a chance in hell of keeping to the road. But his brother and his car . . . it seemed that was a relationship that would never change.

Finally, Dean drew his head back, and an expression that _almost_ seemed like one of his old smirks filtered through the mask. "Yeah, actually, they did. In, uh, two thousand sixteen."

Sam's eyebrows arched high across his forehead. "Really?" He hadn't actually expected Dean to answer him, and he certainly hadn't been expecting _that_ answer. One didn't have to be a baseball fan or even understand details of the game to know the significance of a win like that. "Must have been one hell of a celebration for that."

Dean snorted softly. "Yeah." The smile started to grow, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Huge party." He paused, seemed to consider holding back the strike of whatever was next up out of his mouth. "Then Chicago was wiped off the map." And just like that, the flirtation with a smile was gone, and a cold sense of darkness sucked away everything but a deep pain that settled within the worn lines of Dean's face, lines Sam would swear weren't there just a few short months earlier.

Sam's shoulders slumped, jaw ticking and eyes roving the darkened but lively landscape outside the car. Given the late hour, the interstate was sparsely populated, but it _was_ populated. The lights of a small town glittered in the distance, and the passing trees were lush and green in the shine of overhead moonlight.

If the future was as bad as Dean made it sound, then having all of this back should do well to lighten some of the load he'd been bearing. Instead, it seemed to be growing heavier with each passing moment, with every choice Dean made, and Sam was worried about what would happen when the last straw was placed, when the final blow landed.

Sam understood that they were on the clock and that there wasn't any time for either of them to relax and adjust to anything that had happened, was happening, or would never come to pass. But with his brother's eyes locked onto a distant point beyond the Impala's windshield, seeing something Sam couldn't even begin to imagine, he knew there was only one thing that could not only put this sullen look on Dean's face but keep it there.

"Is there . . ." Sam began hesitantly, encouraged when Dean didn't instantly cut him off. The window was still open, and he was anxious to take advantage of it while he could. "Is there anything I should know? You know, about me?"

Dean's mouth twisted into a frown, and he shook his head, running the flat of his hand along the curve of the steering wheel. Sam was familiar with the expression, one Dean would make when he was fighting with himself. When he had something he wanted to say, something he badly wanted Sam to hear but couldn't quite bring himself to put it into words because it might hurt them both. Like he had some kind of tentative control over reality, and whatever he was so fearful of wouldn't come to pass if he didn't give it voice.

Sam dropped his eyes, thinking over the events of the last few months. As far as he could gather, in the future he and his brother were on good terms, but there were things Dean had said, remarks dropped in the heat of the moment or without thinking that had Sam wondering otherwise. As brothers, it was expected that they would fight, sometimes about serious shit and other times about who left what lying around where it didn't belong, but some of the things Dean had let slip betrayed bigger fights. The type that left scars from actions or words beyond the scope of any permanent sense of forgiveness.

Dean's personality had always been of a somewhat edgy nature. He'd always been wary of other's intentions, but there had been times recently when he'd looked at Sam like he was waiting for him to either split and not look back or attack, and he couldn't quite decide which was more likely.

Suddenly, Sam wasn't sure he really wanted to hear Dean's response. He knew it would be unpleasant and difficult to hear, difficult to _know_ and not forget, but the question was already asked. It sat in the air between them, and there was no taking it back now, so instead Sam steeled himself for what was coming.

The almost-smirk graced Dean's lips once more, and for a brief moment in time Sam felt a wash of relief that maybe, _just maybe_ , it wasn't all bad.

Then, without warning or preamble, Dean sucked in a harsh breath of air and his whole body jerked like he'd been struck with an electric jolt, fingers tightening around the steering wheel before letting go completely.

"Dean!" Sam lurched to the left, one hand scrambling to gain control of the wheel and the other fisting the shoulder of his brother's jacket, shoving him back against the seat. The Impala was already veering off-course, and Sam blindly threw out his left foot, stomping in the direction of the brake pedal. He shot his brother a worried, fleeting look. "Dean, what the—"

Eyes screwed shut and panting for breath, Dean brought both hands to his chest and kicked out, the desperate violence of his reflexive movements knocking Sam's foot from its precarious position on the brake. His hand slipped from the Impala's steering wheel and she hooked a hard left.

The long screech of the side panel along the concrete stretch of median should have been more than enough to bring Dean's senses back in stereo, but he continued to struggle, and Sam found himself growing frantic to bring the car to a stop _now_. Heart thudding, he gripped his brother's shirt front, mumbled an apology, and hauled Dean toward the passenger side of the car, ripping him fully away from the wheel.

Dean sucked in a sharp gasp of air as though the touch, the movement, or the combination of both pained him even further than what was already going on inside his own body. Sam winched for his brother but had to focus on one thing at a time, and right now that one thing had to be _stopping the car._

Sam slid along the bench seat, gripping the steering wheel and pressing an agitated Dean against the seatback. He knocked his brother's legs out of the way, put a firm boot on the brake, and stomped the pedal to the floor mat.

She jerked to a halt at an angle that was more off the road than on it, and Sam allowed himself only a brief moment to be thankful it was nighttime and the road had been meagerly populated.

He twisted awkwardly on the seat, eyes locking onto the spot where Dean was contorted: mostly behind him and sprawled against the passenger-side seat. In the sparse lighting of a well-placed street lamp, Sam could see that Dean's jaw was clenched so tightly that he momentarily worried his brother might crack a tooth. Dean's shoulders were pulled inward, so he was practically folded in on himself, and his curled fingers dug into his chest as his breathing hitched and spasmed between his teeth.

Dean was still conscious—mostly, and for the moment Sam was going to log that as another tally in the win column. He shifted more on his seat, sliding closer to his brother and pressing his fingers to the side of his neck. A frown twisted Sam's face as he immediately noted the heat of Dean's skin: he felt like he was on _fire,_ and his pulse was beating so fast it seemed to hum under the pads of his fingers.

Sam moved his hand to grip Dean's shoulder, squeezing firmly as he leaned forward in an effort to catch the man's gaze. "Dean, come on, man. Talk to me."

Dean opened his mouth to respond but could only seem to manage a strangled cry. He rolled his head, pressing his face into the relatively cool comfort of the Impala's leather seats.

Anxiety swirled around Sam, clenching his lungs and squeezing until he could barely breathe. His mind rushed back to repeat the words the Trickster had spoken only a few days prior. Was this the result of Dean's unstable pair of souls? Dean couldn't be . . . it was too soon. The Trickster said they had at least two weeks, but what if he was lying? What if he simply didn't know shit?

Sam dug his fingers into the meat of Dean's upper arm, attempting to ground himself to the urgency of the moment and press down on the panic threatening to splinter his mind. He needed to be calm. _Dean_ needed him to be calm.

Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. There wasn't much he could do for his brother in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere.

_You can't do_ anything _for him._

Sam gritted his teeth and pushed the errant thought into some dark, cobwebbed corner of his mind, forcing himself to narrow his thoughts down to what needed to be done and nothing else. He glanced out the window. They were still in the middle of the road, and for the moment the road was clear, but if another car came barreling around the bend . . .

Sam turned back to his brother, intent on rousing him enough to feel able to move him. "Dean." He took a shaky breath when Dean didn't even twitch. "Hey, man, I need to shift you over to the passenger side so I can get us out of here. You wouldn't want someone to hit your baby, would ya?" he added with a play at a smile that felt more like a grimace.

"Okay."

With some effort, Sam released his hold and patted Dean's shoulder, taking a moment to decide the fastest way to move his brother and do it without causing him even more pain.

Some tricky maneuvering, a few colorful words, and one banged and sure-to-be bruised knee later, he tugged Dean upright into a—hopefully—more comfortable mostly seated position on the passenger side of the bench.

Sam pressed his fingers against Dean's neck once more, found his brother's pulse still fast but no longer the terrifyingly erratic hum it had been moments earlier. He was about to slide into the driver's side when he caught sight of a thick dark liquid drip from Dean's nose.

"Shit." He reached over the front seat and grabbed for the cleanest-looking cloth available and pressed it gently but firmly under his brother's nose in an attempt to stem the blood. Dean's skin was still too hot, and his face was far paler than Sam was comfortable with. His breathing was a too-rapid succession of ragged gasps, hitching every few moments before starting again while his fingers dug senselessly into the center of his sternum. Sam was no longer sure if his brother was aware of what was going on around him or if he was even conscious at this point.

Sam pulled the cloth back, satisfied that the trickle of blood seemed to have abated, and he took an extra moment to make sure Dean was as comfortable as he could be expected to be. Then he slipped completely behind the steering wheel and shifted the car into drive.

He debated taking Dean to a hospital, but if this was a side effect from the unstable souls then there was nothing anyone in a hospital could do for him. They couldn't fix it, Sam mused as he chewed on his lower lip, glancing at the unsteady rise and fall of his brother's chest, but it was possible that they could treat the symptoms. Some of them.

Maybe.

Sam was flipping through a mental Rolodex of nearby hospitals that wouldn't alert the FBI to their presence when the shift shifted and a groan startled him from his thoughts.

"Dean?" Sam shot a glance over to his brother.

"Mmm?" Dean blinked tiredly, his fingers continuing to press and prod at the center of his chest.

"You . . ." Sam almost asked if Dean was all right but knew both the answer his brother would give and the truthful juxtaposition of what had just taken place. He licked his lips and started again. "Dude, what the hell was that? What happened?"

Dean shook his head, downplaying the pain or brushing his brother off, and Sam felt the overwhelming urge to smack the man.

"Dean, you can't tell me it was nothing. _That_ wasn't nothing. You've got to talk to me about this, man."

Dean shook his head again. "That's not . . ." He winced, fidgeting in his seat until he found a comfortable position. "I don't know."

"You don't know _what_?" Sam shot a frustrated glance from the road to his brother and back again.

"What _this_ "—Dean gestured sharply to his chest—"is. Trust me, if I knew, I'd tell you."

"Dean. Twice now, in just as many days, you've . . ." Sam frowned, searching for the correct word, one that would fully encapsulate the violence of the episodes without sending his stubborn ass of a brother running for the hills. "Collapsed in pain."

Dean winced visibly, casting his eyes away from Sam to just about anywhere else in the car, a guarded look that screamed of a guilty conscious. He shifted once more on the bench as the comfortable position he'd found already became unbearable.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Unless it wasn't just twice."

Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. "Don't we have more important things to worry about right now?"

"When?"

"Sam . . ."

" _When_ , Dean? How many times has this happened and you haven't seen fit to tell me?"

"Like a freakin' dog with a bone," Dean muttered, heaving a sigh. He sniffed and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand like it was bothering him.

"At the diner," he relented. "When I was in the bathroom. Then . . ." He paused, frowning at the red spots decorating his hand. He pressed his lips together and quickly moved to wipe the blood from his fingers to his jeans. "A few other times, but none quite as bad as . . ." He gestured vaguely.

Sam tightened his hands around the steering wheel. "Is this because of the souls?"

"Considering it wasn't something that happened the first time around . . ." Dean gave a weak shrug. "Gabriel wasn't really specific on the side effects of an unstable soul, but that's where Vegas money's at."

Sam opened his mouth to respond but paused, tilting his head to the side. "Gabriel?"

Dean made a face. "It's, uh . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck. "The Trickster's name. His real name."

Sam lifted a single eyebrow. "The Trickster's name is Gabriel?"

"Sure." Dean cracked a smile, or tried to. "You didn't think he just called himself 'the Trickster,' did you?"

"Well, yeah, you know, 'cause he does." Sam looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye. "Gabriel seems like an odd name for a Trickster. I'd have thought it'd be something like Loki, or Eshu."

"Bless you."

"What?"

"What?"

They studied each other for a moment before Dean cleared his throat. "You wanna pay attention to the road?" Dean threw a hand toward the front window. "I swear, Sam, if you get a scratch on my baby . . ."

Sam scrunched his face, not even bothering to hide the grimace. "Yeah, about that . . ."


	21. Fight Inside

_I'm still the same, pursuing pain_

_Is it worth all that I've gained._

_We both know, how this will end, but I'd do it again._

_It finds me._

_The fight in inside is coursing through my veins._

_And it's raging._

_The fight inside is breaking me again._

* * *

Dean's head dropped back against the sun-warmed leather of the Impala's bench seat, his eyes sliding shut of their own accord. He'd been dozing off and on for the last few hours—more off than on—ever since he almost—ever since he let Sam have a turn at driving. Despite the intermittent sleep he couldn't shake the bone-deep exhaustion that lay over him like a heavy blanket.

He knew what the cause was; it didn't take a rocket surgeon to figure it out. His time was running out, and the downhill roll was gaining speed. It'd started within a day of his arrival to this time, though it'd only happen,  _maybe_  once a week and was never more than a mild discomfort that he could pass off as indigestion.

Since the aborted spell at Bobby's house, it's become more persistent, at its calmest it felt like a wendigo squeezing his lungs while embers burnt hotly in his chest. At its worst . . . it felt like he was being shredded, ripped apart at a level that went deeper than physical, like every cell in his body was laced with fire and broken glass, punching through his veins, searing him till there was nothing left. Dean was no stranger to what it felt like to die, but this—this was like nothing he'd ever experienced before. It was more than just dying. It felt like—

The familiar squeak of the Impala's driver's side door jerked Dean from his thoughts. A few miles back Sam had decided they should stop, get something to eat. They'd stopped at a roadside diner, one of those chrome-plated middle-of-nowhere types with a five-car parking lot and crater-like potholes you could get lost in.

He hadn't really been hungry—the thought of food sent his stomach rolling—but he hadn't felt like arguing with his brother and instead opted to just stay in the car while Sam went in to get them something to go. When the driver's door squeaked shut again and the sound of rustling paper bags settled next to him on the seat, he peeled his eyes open and turned his attention to his brother.

Sam opened one of the brown grease-stained paper bags and pulled out a handful of napkins. "They're not serving lunch yet, though seeing as it's like five a.m. . ." He shrugged a shoulder. "Anyway, I wasn't sure what you wanted, so I got you a breakfast burrito. Has like four different kinds of cheeses, jalapeños, heavy on the bacon, along with a side of hash brown wedges."

Dean took the offered food. The smell, while normally mouth-watering, was doing nothing but causing his stomach to revolt in a way that threatened to reject anything remotely resembling food. He set it down on the seat next to him.

He couldn't quite recall the last time Sam had voluntarily bought anything that involved four types of cheeses and heavy on the bacon without complaint, but he was seventy-nine percent sure he was currently looking at a paper-wrapped, grease-stained bribe of some sort.

"Oh." Sam produced a steaming cup from seemingly nowhere and held it out. "Also got you coffee, black, of course."

Dean took the coffee with a little more enthusiasm, hoping the life-giving substance would help shake the exhaustion that sleep had failed to make a dent in. He took a slow sip, letting the scolding liquid burn down his throat, then turned his attention to his brother, waiting for the younger man to drop the other shoe.

Sam looked pensive, like he was caught in the midst of conflicting thoughts and feelings and wasn't sure which to lead with.

Dean figured he deserved whichever one Sam chose to go with. He needed to get this thing that was happening to him under control, lock it down before it cost him something he couldn't get back. But even as he sat, unmoving, in the Impala, the one place that had always brought him some degree of comfort, a fresh bloom of agony ignited behind his sternum as suddenly as a freshly struck match. Dean sniffed against the phantom tickle of blood in his nose; he curled his fist against the hard leather seat, resisting the urge to press his fingers against either his chest or nose. Neither action would really do him any good, and both would give him away.

Sam stared down at his own food with a weary but determined look, like there was something he wanted to say but wasn't quite ready to say it. Dean thought about waiting his brother out, letting Sam work out whatever was going on under that mop of hair, but Dean realized that the longer Sam thought on whatever he was trying to decide the more confident and assured he'd be of that decision.

Dean swallowed another mouthful of coffee. He was eighty-three percent sure that whatever Sam was debating, he wasn't going to like, so he cleared his throat and threw out the first thing that came to his mind. "So about this book—"

"I called Bobby," Sam blurted out, either ignoring or not hearing Dean's attempted sentence.

Dean paused for a moment, unsurprised Sam would call the older hunter; he and Sam had become closer since they found out about his time traveling, Sam relying more on Bobby's opinion and instinct in a situation neither of them were familiar with. Bobby had always been a solid fixture in their lives, someone they could lean on when they had no one else to turn to. He was glad to see Sam develop that sooner with Bobby and only regretted that it felt like it was at the sacrifice of his own relationship with the man he still saw as an adopted father.

Sam shifted in his seat, turning to face him. "He's gonna meet us near Jacksonville, Illinois."

"Sam, I think we can handle grabbing a book without adult supervision."

"You're not going."

Dean's eyebrows arched skyward. "To Illinois?" He tilted his head to the side like he was having a hard time hearing.

"To Yale." Sam paused and then nodded his head like he was giving himself some level of support in this asinine decision he made for the both of them. "Bobby will take you back to his place. I'll go to Yale and get the book then meet you guys there."

Dean jerked his head back, his eyes narrowing. "The hell you say."

"The hell I do say!" he replied with explosive quickness, like he had the round chambered and ready to fire before the fight had even begun. "You need to rest, Dean."

Dean forced himself to unclench his fist, fingers tingling gratefully as circulation resumed. "I'm  _fine_."

Sam shoved his door open, slamming it behind him as he paced a few steps toward the front of the car, dragging a hand roughly through his hair.

Dean sighed, set his coffee down then followed his brother out into the empty parking lot. He stopped at the front of the car, leaning against the hood in what he hoped would be an unnoticed need for support. "Sam—"

Sam spun on his heel, throwing his hands out in a wide gesture. "You're  _not fine_ , Dean."

Sam sounded so much like Dad, so much like good 'ol John Winchester. Dean wondered if he noticed, and the irony of it begged to be acknowledged by the younger of his souls, begged for a joke to be made, but they were already wading, ankle-deep in one argument. No need to start another. The older of the two knew that this was just Sam coming into his own, growing into himself and exerting some new level of control into their dynamic. Into their partnership.

Both parts of Dean were kind of proud of the kid, in a wanting-to-beat-the-ever-loving-snot-out-him kind of way. That, however, didn't mean he was going to go along with his brother's asinine decision and sit on the sidelines while Sam tracked down this book. He tried once more: "Sam—"

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean. You are not  _fine_. You collapsed in the middle of a fight! You were nearly killed! You're lucky everyone was too busy trying to kill everyone else to pay attention to us!"

Sam dragged a hand down his face making a visible effort to hold on to some semblance of  _calm_. He shifted from one foot to the other, holding his palms out in front of him. "This is important, I know that. I'll go to Yale and fetch the book, but I really think you should just lay low, relax, maybe take a—"

"What? A nap?"

"A break." Sam glared at Dean, giving him his patented bitch face. "Maybe you've heard of them? It's something normal people do, you know, instead of pushing themselves until they collapse in the middle of a cult compound."

"First of all"—Dean held up a hand—"pretty sure normal people don't usually end up in the middle of a cult compound. And second,  _we_ "—he waved a hand between them—"aren't even in the same zip code as normal."

Sam sucked in his cheeks like there was a sizable slice of lemon in his mouth. The sight of it threatened to bring a smirk to Dean's face.

Sam pursed his lips into a thin white line. "You know what I mean."

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, okay. I'm not a hundred percent, but I don't need to be left behind like a . . ." Dean gestured vaguely, trying to come up with an example that worked for him. He quickly gave up and redirected the sentence. "I'm not fucking  _worthless_ , Sam."

"No, but you are a liability."

Dean pulled his head back. "You wanna try that again?"

"A liability, Dean." Sam took a step forward. "You might not care if you get yourself killed, but this thing that's happening to you—what happens when I'm depending on you to have my back and suddenly you can't because you . . ." Sam gestured vaguely at Dean.

Dean narrowed his eyes. It was dirty pool, and he  _knew_  Sam knew it and he hated the fact that his brother was right, that this dual soul thing made him more of a liability than a help, but he was damned if he was going to ride the pine on this and let his brother do all the work. He would just have to work twice as hard to make sure he wasn't a burden.

He curled his fingers into a tight fist, doing his best to push aside the pain building in his chest and focus on his brother. "All right. I get it. I do. But this book is in a library at Yale. We are just driving up, fetching it, then heading back to Bobby's. No fighting, no hunting—just checking out a book. How much could possibly go wrong?"

Sam brought a hand up and pointed at his shoulder: thick gauze and stitches were hidden under his shirt and jacket.

Dean sucked his teeth. "I see your point . . ." He held his hands up, placating against the air. "However, I don't think Yale is overrun by a family of . . . anything supernatural. I'm pretty sure that's something I'd know." Dean paused, casting his gaze skyward as he thought about it for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, definitely something I would know."

Sam folded his arms over his chest, casting an impressive bitch face over the hood of the Impala. Clearly he didn't find Dean nearly as amusing as Dean found himself. "Dean . . ." Sam heaved a sigh that was caught somewhere between capitulation and willful stubbornness. "What am I supposed to do, man? You can't fight, you can't drive—"

"Whoa, whoa." Dean tapped his fingertips against the air, then turned his palms upward. "Who says I can't drive?"

Sam lets out a humorless laugh. "Are you kidding?" He threw a hand out toward the driver's side of the Impala. "Have you seen the damage you did to the car? To your  _baby_?"

Dean hadn't. He'd been actively avoiding it in the hopes that if he didn't look it couldn't really exist.

"Dean, you—" Sam dragged his fingers through his hair. "I don't even know, collapsed in pain? While _driving_!You could have killed us both!"

Dean opened and shut his mouth a few times, attempting to come up with a good counterargument. At this point, though, he'd settle on vaguely decent. "That—that was a . . . one-time thing." He cringed at his own words, knowing that they weren't even in the same time zone as vaguely decent.

Sam cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows arching upwards.

"Except . . . for those other times," Dean mumbled, dropping his gaze toward the ground.

"Uh-huh."

Dean was quickly losing ground in this argument, and he hadn't started out with all that much—he would have to try for a different tactic. If he couldn't win using logic, he'd just have to go for good ole reckless Winchester stubbornness. Dean drew back his shoulders and lifted his chin, wincing as the pain across his chest ratcheted up a notch from the movement. "Look, Sam, I'm going with you. There's no way in hell I'm letting you go this alone while I sit around like some wallflower."

"But you  _can't_  just sit there." Sam threw his hand out toward Dean and took a step forward. "I mean, come on, dude. You're not even doing anything right now and you're in pain—and don't try to tell me you're not, because I can see it plain as day."

Having been caught, Dean brought his hand up and pressed it against his chest; it didn't relieve any of the pain, not even a little. "Which is exactly why sitting around at Bobby's wouldn't make any of a difference. At least going up to Yale I'd be doing something."

Sam let his arm drop to his side as he let out a weary sigh. "What would you do in my place?"

_Tie you to a chair? Lock you in the panic room? Shove you in the trunk, knock you unconscious, and leave before you had a chance to wake up?_  Dean could think of a hundred things he'd do in Sam's position—had done—in order to keep him safe, but that wasn't Sam's job, and he certainly wasn't going to give the kid any ideas. He rose stiffly, wincing as his did.

"All right, I get it. You're right," he said, knowing how far those words went with Sam. "But  _this_  situation has been reversed before in the future, and you refused to back down or sit on the sidelines, no matter how bad you were hurting. And I trusted you to tell me when it was too much, when you were at the end of your rope."  _Sometimes._ "I'm asking you to trust me to do the same."

Sam studied him for a long moment. In the brief span of time, Dean watched a myriad of emotions cross his face: disbelief, frustration, affection, annoyance, and finally acceptance as he shook his head.

"I cannot believe you just pulled out something that sappy." Sam chuffed out a laugh. "'s a low blow."

Sam wasn't the only one that could play dirty pool. "You're just pissed I stole your move."

"Whatever." Sam sighed, not looking at all pleased with himself for caving. "All right, but you're still not driving."

Dean held up his hands in mock surrender. "Shotgun's cool with me, so long as it's in the car. And not, you know, in the trunk with the shotguns."

Sam ignored his joke. "If you so much as start twitching, man, I'm not even going to take the time to find a motel to dump your lame ass in. I'm just gonna leave you on the side of the road."

Dean nodded and didn't put up any further protestation, because Sam still had something of a John Winchester aura around him. It was strange, though somehow fitting. "Sounds fair."

"I mean it."

They both knew he didn't.

* * *

There were some things his brother did differently now, and some things, Sam figured, Dean would always do exactly the same. He supposed it could be a good thing, or at least not a terrible thing, since that left certain aspects of this sometimes utterly unrecognizable stranger that still felt familiar, still felt like  _Dean_. His tenuous relationship with honesty or, more importantly, admitting when something wasn't right . . . that looked to be one of the things that wasn't ever going to change.

It didn't matter that this  _exact_  sort of secretive stubbornness of Dean's has blown up in his face in the past or, more recently, almost caused irreparable damage to the two things he claimed to care for more than anything else in this whole damn world. It didn't matter that the man had passed out in Sam's lap from the pain of whatever existential force was  _ripping him apart_  from inside. And god forbid he clue his little brother in on what was happening before it got to the point where he was bleeding and seizing in Sam's arms.

But when it came to bad habits and well-worn patterns, Sam was no different—not really. He could try his damnedest to be tough for his big brother, try to be the kind of man he knew Dean was straining to see when he looked Sam in the eye, but, at the end of the day, he was always going to cave to his big brother. Twenty-five was a little old to start looking to break bad habits.

Sam spared a glance at the other side of the car. Dean had been wincing and twitching for hours, tense and stoic as he stared out the window to his right and channeled all his very obvious pain into the white fist he was pressing into the leather next to his thigh.

Sam's hands flexed around the steering as he squinted through the afternoon sun at an approaching road sign advertising a pitifully small array of fast food offerings, and his stomach grumbled its own eager opinion on the subject. "You, uh, you need anything?" Sam shot Dean another glance. It was the first thing either of them had said since breakfast, like they'd come to some unspoken mutual understanding that if they weren't talking, then at least they weren't fighting, or worse, lying.

"No," Dean replied in a tense, thick way that granted volumes of meaning to the single word. He grimaced as he drew a deep breath that Sam swore he could hear rattle around the inside of the man's chest. "I'm okay."

He wasn't okay, not even in the same zip code as okay, but Sam turned back to the road and swallowed the lie like he had the ones that preceded it. Dean wasn't at all  _okay_ , and there were a lot of things he needed. He needed to get out of the car and stretch his legs. He needed rest, not short sporadic fits of dozing and certainly not the nightmare-plagued sleep that haunted Dean almost nightly, but  _real_  rest. And more than anything he needed to stop lying about what the stress of two goddamned souls crammed into one human body was doing to him before it really did kill them both.

The man had obviously been through the ringer, and if the nightly thrashing and muted terrors they were pretending weren't happening were any indication, Dean had been through more than even Sam's worst nightmares blended together could come up with, things he was positive would splinter any other person into pieces so small they'd fit through the eye of a needle. But Dean had always possessed an indescribable sort of strength, one that had seen him through a rough childhood, a strength that kept him going when everything else was coming apart. It was a strength Sam wished his brother would recognize for what it was, but sometimes Dean worried so much about people seeing what he perceived as weaknesses, at tipping his hand, even to his own brother, that he never saw how truly strong he could be, never saw what Sam saw when he looked at his big brother.

Leaning heavily against the door, Dean sniffed and tried as discretely as possible to swipe his fingers under his nose. He'd been doing it off and on, playing it off like he was scratching, but Sam knew he was checking for blood. Just as he knew it was more than this odd duality of souls that was killing Dean. It was the weight of this task he'd undertaken, of righting more wrongs than he'd seen fit to let Sam in on. Everything he knew and wasn't telling his brother—it was eating at him, and there was a darkness in Dean's gaze sometimes that scared him.

He'd said some things to his brother he didn't mean and couldn't take back, but when he'd called Dean a liability, as harsh as it had come out, he meant it. As the scuffs along the side of the Impala could attest to, Dean was becoming as much a danger to Sam as he'd always been to himself. But even with that knowledge well in hand, Sam knew he would never leave Dean behind, not really, and he would never make good on his threat. There was no way he could ever leave his brother at the side of the road just because he couldn't control the pain coursing through his body. If Sam couldn't stop this thing happening to him, then he was damn sure going to be by Dean's side when it happened.

"I'm gonna pull off," Sam said suddenly, driving the thoughts from his head and not offering Dean a choice in the matter as he pointed the Impala toward the upcoming off-ramp.

They weren't that far from Yale—maybe another hour or so—but they'd been driving for hours; they needed food and to stretch their legs. He'd gotten Dean to eat at breakfast: a few obligated bites of the cheesy bacon-loaded heart attack he'd gotten to soften and bribe the man with, but more than half of it went untouched, tossed into the trash at the last fuel stop. He had more success with the coffee, which his brother had sucked down at an alarming speed, because, by God, if a man had two souls inside warring for space and tearing him to pieces, he'd better be awake and alert when they finally decided to go nuclear.

Right on cue with Sam's thoughts, Dean hissed, finally giving in and raising a hand to his chest as he folded a bit in his seat.

Sam bit his lip, shot his brother a sideways glance as worry pooled in his gut. He didn't think he could go through that again, didn't think  _Dean_  could go through it again. "Dean, hey, are . . . are you okay?"

Dean shook his head, a snort of laughter pushing its way through as he slumped back against the seat. "Yeah. Yeah, you got to stop asking me that." He shifted in the seat till he found a position that was more comfortable. "Gonna start charging."

Sam let out a breath, relieved by the false alarm, and shot back, "Just be reasonable about the price, okay? I'm running low on cash at the moment."

His brother's laugh grew into a sound that almost seemed genuine enough to completely cover the pain laced beneath, and hearing it made Sam smile.

Dean couldn't stop jumping into fires, couldn't stop pulling people from them. It didn't matter who started the fires or how badly he got burnt, only that someone was in need of help. The book in Yale would hold the answer, would save Dean. Sam had to hold onto that, had to believe in that. His brother had leapt headfirst into this fire, and now it was Sam's job to drag his lame ass out of it.

* * *

A partially eaten lunch and a hand full of hours later Sam released a sigh of relief as they hit the Yale University Campus. All that was left was, avoid trouble, get the book, get back to Bobby's, and fix Dean before anything else went wrong. A simple plan.

Dean leaned forward in his seat, squinting out the Impala's large windshield. "When did it start raining?"

Sam shot his brother a sideways glance. "Uh, like an hour or two ago." After they'd grabbed lunch to go and headed back out on the road, it had started raining hard and heavy, the sky falling from a sunny afternoon to dark and dreary, growing darker as they got closer to campus. Sam wasn't sure whether he should be concerned that Dean hadn't noticed.

Dean blinked rapidly, pressed the heel of his hands against his eyes, and then looked back out the window again, blinking a few more times as if trying to clear his vision.

Sam frowned, concern sinking into something more worrisome. "Dean, are you . . . all right?"

Dean glanced over at Sam for a long moment. It was an inane question. They both knew the answer—it was written in plain sight in the older man's posture, the pinch of his face, and the fingers that kept straying to the center of his chest. Sam also knew the answer Dean would give, the same one he always gave, like if he said it enough  _someone_  was going to eventually believe him.

Dean turned his eyes back to the grayed afternoon and rain-soaked campus that stretched out beyond the car. "So, this is Yale, huh?" His eyes roamed across the scenery, taking in the empty sidewalks and darkened buildings. "Always imagined it . . . different."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Different?"

"Hey, Sam?" Dean turned toward his brother. "You think if you hadn't missed a perfect LSAT score by six points you would have gone here instead of Stanford?"

"Dude, I—" Sam stopped short, trying to remember if he'd ever told Dean about the LSAT; he was positive he hadn't. He'd taken the test right before his brother had shown up in his living room asking for help to find their father. In the chaos that followed closely after he'd all but forgotten about the test and the near-perfect score. It hadn't seemed as important at the time, and although Dean had asked Sam if he wanted to go back to school after the yellow-eyed demon had been killed, talking about anything college-related more often than not ended in an argument about  _other_  things. Which of course begged the question: "How do you know what I scored on my LSAT?"

Dean shrugged nonchalantly and returned his gaze back toward the campus. "You mentioned it once when we were playing Twenty Questions with a publisher while trying to find an author who'd been writing stories based on our life."

"Stories based on . . . wait, what?"

"We thought he was a prophet of God, but we later found out he  _was_  God."

Sam jerked his head back, his eyebrows shooting skyward. "Wait . . . God? Like . . . God?"

A cockeyed smirk lit Dean's face. "Yeah, he's an okay guy. Takes really long showers, though." He paused for a moment and then added, "And sings . . . loudly. Not even good music either."

Sam's eyes darted over toward his brother, studying his brother's face for a long moment before he finally shook his head, realizing that his brother was once more messing with him. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Dean's smirk grew into a full-blown smile. "It's been said."

A grin threatened to pull across Sam's lips. He wasn't—couldn't—be angry at his brother. Hell, at that moment he was finding it hard to even be irritated. A Dean well enough to mess with his little brother . . . he would put up with it all day if it meant he wasn't folded over in pain, being ripped apart from the inside.

"Seriously, though." Dean gestured toward the rain-soaked campus beyond the dry warmth of the car. "For a Tuesday afternoon this place is like a ghost town."

Sam drew his eyebrows together and followed Dean's gaze, eyes bouncing across the buildings and streets laid before him, then glanced down at the Impala's clock. "It is a little . . . odd. Maybe no one wants to be out in . . . this?"

The rain was coming down in thick sheets, hammering against the top of the car, drowning out most sounds. While he knew no one really would want to be out in this type of storm, he also knew what it was like at college, especially one that wasn't easy to get into. There were always students that would rather skip and stay in their rooms, but there were always more students willing to brave almost any weather to make it to class to ensure that perfect 4.0 GPA.

Sam offered a shrug.

The sound of the rain bouncing off the car filled the otherwise silent interior as they covered the last few blocks and pulled into a parking spot along the empty road adjacent to a large gray building that looked like Tetris blocks stacked on top one another till they formed a long rectangle.

Dean squinted through the rain at the odd building before him. "This the place?"

Sam gave the building an apprising look. "This is it. Collection of some of the rarest and oldest books and manuscripts in the U.S."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "All right, Hermione, calm down. Let's just get this book and get out of here." He cast a glance around the area. "This place gives me the creeps."

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, unsure if Dean was picking up on the same vibe he'd been since they got onto campus. He was sure it was just the stress of everything that'd been happening—not enough sleep and too much coffee—but something about the empty campus and darkened buildings felt off. He brushed the feeling to the side. All he wanted to do was get this book and save his brother. The feeling was nothing more than an overactive imagination.

Sam reached into the backseat, fishing around till his fingers found the heavy canvas material of his coat. "Just, uh, let me do the talking, okay?"

Dean's brows folded toward the center of his forehead. "What? You think I can't handle a college librarian?"

"Dean, have you ever tried to get access to old and irreplaceable books in . . . any type of library?" Sam paused and then held up a hand. "Legally, I mean. They don't let just anyone come in and see the books, much less take them. You need more than a charming smile."

"I'm assuming you have some kind of plan then? Or you just gonna go with that puppy dog look and wait for 'em to cave?"

Sam placed his hand on the door handle and threw a smirk Dean's way. "I have a plan." He shoved the door open and stepped into the pouring rain.

It took only seconds for the rain to soak through his jacket, causing him to pull it tighter around him. Sam heard the passenger side door open then shut again with its familiar groan, and for a moment Sam wondered if Dean ever fixed the hinges on the door or at least oiled them so they wouldn't screech anymore. The doors had made the sound for as long as he could remember, even before his father had passed it on to Dean. A large part of Sam hoped Dean didn't and never would fix it.

"Hey! You plannin' on standing there all day? At this rate we'll drown before we get the book." Dean glared at him from over the top of the car, looking every bit as soaked as he felt.

Sam shook his head, droplets of water flinging out in random directions. He gave his brother one last look before heading up the sidewalk toward the building.

Sam's heart sank as they approached the building and found it was as dark and as devoid of life as the rest of the campus. "I think it's closed." He gave the revolving door a hefty push, just in case, but they remained stubbornly motionless.

"The library—on a  _college campus_ —is closed on a Tuesday afternoon?" Dean tilted his head to the side, lifting a single eyebrow. "I don't suppose this plan of yours involved lock picks?"

Sam stepped away from the door, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. "I don't think we can just . . ." He gestured toward the building. "You know. I mean, they have some pretty rare stuff in there. I don't think they'd be very light on security."

"You shouldn't be here," a sharp voice cut in through the rain.

Sam and Dean spun around and found a college aged woman standing just outside the cover of the building. She had ash brown hair that hung in soaked clusters around her shoulders. She wore jeans and a heavy canvas coat and although it looked to be as soaked through as theirs, she seemed unbothered by it.

"You shouldn't be here," she repeated. "The library is closed."

"Yeah, we've noticed." Dean gestured back toward the locked doors. "I don't suppose you know why? Or maybe when it'll be open?"

The woman rolled her lips against her teeth, studying both with large dark eyes before finally replying, "A boy died in there yesterday. One of the students here."

Sam gave Dean a sidelong glance. "That would explain why everything looks so empty."

"He drowned," she stated, answering the question before they'd had a chance to ask.

"Drowned? In a library?" Dean raised a curious eyebrow, a glint Sam was all too familiar with forming in his eyes. "How?"

Sam frowned, the  _off_  feeling from earlier growing till it settled heavily in the pit of his stomach. He didn't really want to know. Trouble followed them around more than their own shadows.

"He was in the catalog room and just started choking, water started coming out of his mouth, and then he . . ." She gave a small shrug.

"You saw it happen?" Dean asked.

The woman nodded, then dropped her gaze toward the ground.

"I'm sorry you had to see that." The words slipped past Sam's lips without thought, offering the comfort reflexively.

Dean took a step forward. "Have there been any other drowning or strange deaths lately, that you know of?"

"Dean . . ." Sam warned under his breath, grabbing his brother's arm and turning away from the woman. He could see where this was going and did not want to follow it through. Drowning in a library without a nearby water source sounded exactly like their kind of thing; he held out a small bit of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could convince Dean to let some other hunter look into it. That maybe they could just find a way to get this book and get out of dodge before things got really complicated.

Dean's eyes bounced down to Sam's hand then back to his face. "What?"

Sam lowered his voice, pulling his brother back, closer to the building. "Dean, we're just here to get the book. That's it."

"The library is closed, so unless you are planning a break in . . ."

"We are not breaking into the library."

Dean shucked Sam's hand off his arm. "Okay then." He turned back toward the woman, forcing Sam to follow suit only to find the spot she'd been standing vacant.

Sam caught a flash of brown disappearing around the side of the building, he shrugged, then shifted his attention back to his brother; he stopped short when he noticed Dean staring intently into some sort of middle ground.

"Dean?" When he received no answer he nudged his brother's shoulder. "Hey, dude."

Dean's eyes snapped over to Sam, his eyebrows jumping upwards. "Huh, what?"

"Dude, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, man." Dean dragged his hands over his face then jammed them into his coat pockets. "So. Looks like we got a case here."

"Dean," Sam started slowly, looking for the words he needed to convince his brother to, for once, put his own wellbeing first. He wasn't really sure those words existed in any language, not that that would stop him from trying. "Dean, maybe we should call Bobby, have him see if there's another hunter that can handle this."

"Aw, come on, Sammy." A smile danced on his lips. "If we're gonna be stuck here till the library opens . . . what's the harm of poking around. We can probably use this to our advantage."Dean gave Sam a pat on the back then headed off toward the car. "Besides, I'm sure it's nothing."

Sam sighed heavily as he watched his brother head back toward the car, the plan was:  _avoid_  trouble, get the book, get back to Bobby's, and fix Dean  _before_  anything else went wrong. It was a simple plan.

In theory.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [For What It's Worth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068564) by [chrissie0707](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrissie0707/pseuds/chrissie0707)




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